A far more educated writer than I has already spotlighted the bleeding-heart embarrassment on the slaughterhouse whose owner finally admitted Downers “R” Us (can you hear him now, Joe Nocera?) While he thoughtfully spun Upton in the grave, I limited my WTF to a river of drivel on pasties by someone who had apparently never had to survive on them for a week and a half in Cornwall because her consort had to shoot sunset every night when in June that happened to coincide with last call in the pubs. You live in New York City. Speak empanada, damn it.
And while I admit to being mystified by the American fascination with horror films at a time when we are supposedly going to be killed in our beds by felafel-eating terrorists any night, can someone still please explain to me how a movie poster wound up illustrating a food story? The readout from “Your Waiter Tonight” should have been “Is Extremely Tired and Very Angry — All Cookin’ and No Bourdainin’ Makes Mike a Very Dull Boy.”