All the old lions

Contrast that with the sly phrasing in the hometown paper’s piece on the shitcanning of I-Fucked-the-Chef. Rather than say name-comma-age as is usual, it was “who said she is 74.” Doubt much? (And no, I’m not beating up on a village elder. My elephant side has not forgotten a hat-whipping under a previous editor when I presumed to sell a food piece with a fatal flaw: It did not include a friend of the critic.) But the big laugh is anyone presuming she is the “brand” of a magazine now known best for its editor, and not the one off assigning features in the afterlife. It says it all that the reaction came mostly from people whose juiciest years were “the naughty Seventies.” Visualize a hall of James Beard’s mirrors. Or, for your memory’s sake, don’t.