In with Spiaggia, out with hot dogs

Call this the luck of the drip — I slept right through the most momentous evening in my lifetime, to the point where I could barely rouse myself for a terrorist fist bump with the nurse taking vital signs just before midnight who announced: “He won! He won! All the residents are out in the street celebrating!” To compensate I’ve been obsessing on the big issues, like all the horseshit stories speculating on which celebrity chef is likely to be hired to cook for the classy family evicting the Chimp and his Stepford enabler. (Can you say banquet boss?) And to think it was only eight years ago that my then-employer had to agonize over stories on whether the booze in sauces and stews cooked off enough to be safe for the untreated alcoholic who somehow wound up president. (All hail Panchito!) It’s morning in America when wine is spotted in a candidate’s kitchen. Even Kendall-Jackson is one giant leap beyond near-beer.