I’m so ancient I remember when kids just out of diapers were being hyped as credible restaurant critics. Now it’s kids too young to drive as “chefs.” (How long till the Bitterman wangles a photo op, anti-narcissist that he has suddenly become?) The whole thing seemed so silly I didn’t read it, but I did wonder if this might not have been yet another exercise in pandering to the 1 percent to get the ads for the $25 million apartments. And I guess I wasn’t far off. The peasants will have to continue starting as dishwashers to work their way to the middle. Meanwhile, a certain previous cover kiddle should carpe diem right to it and do a piece advising the latest on how not to wind up eating frozen peas for breakfast while trading fame for notoriety. Or does that only happen to girls?
Post Category → bitter bar
“I know. I’m sending it anyway.”
I’m so busy dicking around on the Internets I can barely keep up with my own outrage these days, but I did enjoy everyone else taking up the cudgel against the Bitterman after he stepped on yet another rake and thought no one would notice. Liars gonna lie.
Brown-nosing through history
Finally, don’t get me started on the new incarnation of the Bitterman as Buddha. Or on any interviewer who could throw out a burrata-ball like: “Do you ever get tired of accepting awards?” Forget the weirdness of the carpet not matching the valance. Really: “It’s wrongheaded and immoral to attack the writer, and I don’t forgive anyone for that?” Guess that means it’s only a sin if it’s done by email.
Ortolans? Nola? What’s the diff?
People kept emailing me links to the sous vide of the Bitterman, and I first responded with tame thoughts like “everyone involved needs to take a Silkwood shower.” But then I started thinking maybe the food coven is not so bad after all — the circle jerk is demonstrably more despicable. If the guy’s a douche bag (I’d go with scumbag, myself), why even show up at an event for him? Taint is not just a body part. It’s communicable.
Go ask Howell . . .
Lastly, I’m quite happy I had some time to let the Bitterman saga stew and then cool, because I might have been intemperate in my first reaction — and any good cook knows how revenge should be served. So: No jerk who emails lying insults should be offended when he gets digitally slapped on the ass. The only mystery is why he spread his alleged injury so far and so wide. Personally, I don’t want to know.
My consort went to NOLA for 10 days and all I got was a clutch of magazines and menus, plus a baffled look at my wondering whether he smelled the oil geyser. As bad as it is, apparently it’s still a long way from stinking up the magic city. But he did taste the future, and it was meat. About the only fish he encountered was halibut, which is not from around there. Maybe it’s no coincidence that nose-to-tail eating has taken off so wildly in the last few years. With no seafood fit to eat, we’ll need all the offal we can get. At least it will be safe for the Bitterman. He won’t have to worry about getting flummoxed by speckled trout again.
It’s a big country. No one can eat it all.
More proof that you can polish a turd long enough to make a zircon: Every time the latest pizza silliness came up, the number of awards from Enron on 12th Street was trotted out as evidence of the seriousness of the authority tackling the impossible. Consider the source. Friends do let friends self-delude.