As my most verbally agile young friend puts it, I have a date shortly at a clean, well-lit table where I’ll be the center of attention, so I’m rationing my bile for now. But I have to say the latest cash-in from Molto Ego, overpriced watches, should be sold as orange badges of cretinism. And I have to wonder if the Egotist really ate chestnuts off the soles of his shoes, as his lede implied. And does no one at the Taj Sulzberger understand that with food sections, once you’ve had color you’ll never go back? And things must be flusher there than I realized if a two-course dinner for $42 is considered a deal. Well, I guess that is only 12 shares of stock.
And then there’s the sad reality that the genius of Monte Carlo has hooked up with the Rachael Ray of France, to neither’s credit. The book party was the most dispiriting in ages, with a strange (and small) crowd in a tired-looking room (upstairs); the great man was there but his collaborator had moved on to bigger things already, leaving her scary agent to do the hustle. Someone must really have something on “the Escoffier of our time” to get him to promote food that has been so bastardized; the photography is almost stomach-turning. How do you say nuked the fridge en francaise?