All the buzz over Mr. Congeniality’s new restaurant almost makes me want to smoke a baguette. My consort and I were actually out the other week with one of his collegial collaborators and passed the scene of the first success, but none of us could recall the name, even though we all agreed the reviewer who set off his success was one of the greats. (Of course, I do know who that guy’s secret arme was.) And I could dwell on what it says about the fud world that after two incarnations as a 1 percent wine the joint is now saying “let ’em eat bread.” Instead, I’ll just have to MT myself: Every time I see the name I flash on the sign at the 14th Street Garden of Eden: Olive Bastard. Which would, come to think of it, make a very good chain.
Speaking of names, here are two I certainly never expected to hear in the same sentence coming out of our kitchen radio: Dunkin’ Donuts. And Newspaper Guild. In all my years as a cursor-linked wretch, that union did me zero good, which is why I never joined, just paid the dues as I was forced to do. The stultified organization kept me from earning equal pay when I was first hired at the NYTimes (no college degree? sure, you have a right to work alongside the Ivy Leaguers, but for less) and in my estimation protected the weak at the expense of the strong (lookin’ at you, poor Sid struggling to finish one story a shift). Certainly it stood by and let the newspaper industry get hammered all these years since Saint Ronnie first came for the air traffic controllers and it said nothing. So you could have knocked me over with a feather pancake to learn the very definition of uselessness has actually scored a raise for a few fast food workers in New York. Today the crappy coffee. Tomorrow, the world.
Time flies when you’re DAOTI — I click on a few favorite sites when I wake up, and the next thing I know it’s time to make dinner. So I’m not the best judge of longevity these days. But has anything really sped past faster than the Butter Guzzler’s heavily covered “comeback”? Talk about the proverbial flash in the bedpan.
To elaborate on a 140-character rant: Somehow I suspect Ferran Adria would know exactly where to shove that monocle merde: Back into the end of the alimentary canal from which it spewed.
Amplifying: I’m so old I lived through a whole restaurant era when Mr. Magooish Luddites could only gift each other little flashlights and credit-card-sized magnifying glasses as the lights went down and presbyopia went up on some victims’ radar. Thanks to my style-forward consort, though, I had the coolest accoutrement early on, so early on that none of the stodges among whom I worked seemed interested. Today I suspect why: A monocle is not a lorgnette. But an asshole will always be an asshole.