A kingdom for a foreskin

At lunch the other day with a food editor friend in from far, far out of town, the conversation naturally turned to mohels (something to do with a rabbi much in demand for his Thanksgiving turkey-carving skills). I had never heard that word but said I was thrilled to learn it because I had been thinking about a little flack who fancies himself a prick but is really only a bris bit. And, wonder of wonders, she immediately knew who I was talking about. If only the memorability quotient were as high with his clients.

Marco. Polo.

In other lapses down by the Taj Sulzberger, a restaurant critic of all people seems to be unaware that shit can happen in a year (or less) in the notoriously volatile world of food. A roundup of chefs’ favorites included one that I seriously doubt is still even in the guy’s mental GPS, a full 14 months after he mentioned it. A certain blog may still be getting kickbacks one way or another, but, as I’ve said, Elvis has left the wine bar.

If wishes were bread

I got a very small laugh out of Irving Mill proudly listing the redundancy of an “organic egg omelette” on its lunch menu (can you make an omelet without breaking shells?) But neither my consort nor I was amused by the $4.49 travesty we tried from the cathedral at Columbus Circle; this alleged bread was all adjectives and no satisfaction. Ten organic ingredients plus filtered water were followed by “dough conditioners,” and they all added up to nasty gumminess. Usually we let a bad bread die a slow death over a few days out of guilt; this one went straight in the trash. And it made me appreciate the fact that Ray Sokolov, in his report on Google cafeterias, coined a pretty good one with “Wholier-Than-Thou.” PC is becoming a terrible rating for food.

The cook, the flack . . .

Call me gullible, but every word in the NYT tale of the power people in Washington suddenly shopping at Costco struck me as a lie, including “and” and “Quinn.” Certainly Richard (WMD) Perle has proven his scummy self is a source to be totally trusted. Even if the nonsense were gospel, though, it is impossible to believe anyone so dependent on the public trough and so insulated from the miseries descending on the rest of the country actually feels any pain. The more likely explanation for any trawling for bargains is the one from which said miseries all spring: greed. With luck the cheap salmon and mystery meat will do them all in.

Assemble the pochettes

Speaking of not-so-hidden meanings in food photography, it’s just too bad there isn’t a bagnewsnotes for this world. The guy would have an ethanol field day with the former Mme. Rushdie’s new book. She’s using her mouth on the cover, in the first shot inside and of course on an ice cream cone and later a drumstick, while another full-page picture shows her with a bowl positioned over stylistically parted legs and still another has her holding a shrimp as familiarly as a Weinstein’s. Unfortunately, all this model cookery makes too many of the straight-on food photos look like Technicolor yawns backstage at Bryant Park. Reality is not the only bitch.

Dial zero

I don’t know what the actual restaurant count is in New York City anymore, but 15,000 has always been a pretty good ballpark. Which only makes me wonder why a certain pricey little Village cafe inevitably turns up on Grub Street at least once a month whenever the reservation game is played. And also why it is now savvy enough to consistently claim it is “fully booked” to appear hot even when empty. Admittedly, it once was fabulous. But Elvis left the wine bar a long time ago. . . .

On golden wings

Cost of a ridiculous and ridiculously flacked sundae? $25,000. Health Department shutdown immediately after the media blitz? Priceless.

In other hype-wire stunts, the silliness of a food blogger hiring help in spreading his “news” was kicked up a notch with the announcement that mentioned “Rum” DMC. Would they be anything like Lillet Kim?

And could they all please give us a break between the unconscionable rush from pagan Halloween straight to unholy Xmas before sending out the Valentine’s releases? My head is about to explode at the thought of six weeks of carols and consumer craziness and misguided advice on how to avoid ballooning on eggnog and gingerbread. I cannot even begin to deal with saccharine VD.

Also, that cooing cuddling between handler and overgrown teddy bear in the Observer’s takeout on Panchito’s nemesis almost made the good old days of Christyne and Rudy seem honestly romantic. You could only think, “Get a room,” and hope it was very, very dark.

Wired

My prediction that flacks are facing extinction in the age of viral marketing turns out to be a bit premature. A food blog has actually gone out and hired one (which tells you much about the vapidity of the content). Worse, a press release can still get blasted all over the internets even when the big announcement has been routinely referred to in print for weeks. (Stop the WordPresses: Laurent is opening in Vegas.) And someone clearly had to run interference with the NYPost for Rachael when her minions went whining that she neglects “her” magazine. Apparently it worked; the column baldly stated that “she writes the editor’s notes and recipes.” Yeah, and Martha Stewart scrubs her own staff toilets.

Where’s the Cajun napalm?

Proof that photos officially speak louder than deeds: The Chimp got all the coverage he expected for parading among the embers while throwing out the same promises he did in New Orleans. Yet Dooky Chase, the scene of his last camera-ready stunt in that lost city, has still not reopened. And to think we have 448 more days of disaster kabuki. . . .

Steno nation

In other PR idiocy, everyone is dutifully regurgitating the promoting point that Nizza is Italian for Nice. It’s actually also Italian for the name of the town in Piemonte where I spent a long night in the hospital listening to cats get it on outside. Sorta like saying a new restaurant serving Az-Mex is named Phoenix “after the bird that rose from the ashes” without acknowledging what the state capital goes by.

Another flack crew, the one finally developing a name for itself for food-free food parties, disseminated a few paragraphs the Onion might cringe from: Complement and Caesar were of course misspelled, the menu “amuses” while the room “pops with color” and the whole overwrought project is summed up as a “steer palace.” Is Restaurantgirl moonlighting? Then there’s the e-release I got insisting that “senior snacking can be tasty and healthy.” What kind of Swiftian shit is this? I know “some say” Social Security is in danger, but is eating the aged the answer?

Taking a Toll-House

Given that her husband repeatedly flat-out lies about trivia like torture, it should not be so crazy-making that Mrs. Chimp continues to prevaricate away about cookies. Sure, she can tell the Gullible Times she doesn’t touch dough, but the Google doesn’t dissemble. Old campaign BS fed to the country doesn’t disappear just because simian wranglers need a new distraction. It figures that her famous recipe had cowboy in the title. They should have called the fake cookies compassionate. Or conservative. And made them with s-chips.

Enjoy every sandwich

A going-straight-to-hell friend out in America sent me an unintentionally funny obit, about a guy who “died suddenly” at 45. No cause was given, but I think I can guess from the name on both his sandwich shop and his carnival concession: Tubbie’s. It’s almost as bad as the smoking-in-bed writer of books on “home entertaining” who died in a fire and was “known as a recluse.” And while I’m kicking corpses, it’s amazing that the singularly nasty Frugal Gourmet has been able to rehabilitate his image from the great beyond. Chow’s lament for no more Mr. Nice Guy says he was charged with mere sexual harassment. His many obits, however, used the proper term for what brought him to his knees: sexual abuse. Of at least seven boys. In other words, he was what he was — a priest in chef’s clothing.

Bee-S movie

I love it when carefully arranged PR campaigns go gloriously bad. This should have been such a happy time for a couple down in the Beresford, him with his new movie coming out, her with her cookbook soaring to the top of the best-seller list on a blast of Oprah. Then someone had to go and ruin it all by pointing out similarities in another yummy mummy how-to. Even Martha Stewart, who went through the same hazing at least 25 years ago, probably couldn’t judge what the truth is, but it’s worth noting that the author herself was essentially stolen from her first husband. And it’s scary to think not one but two women actually came up with the idea of raising little Chimps by teaching them deception is good from a very young age. Now one YM has learned the hazards of venturing into the viper pit of publishing without an agent and the other has had a lesson in the nastiness of the food world. Would Oprah have her back for a different kind of flogging?

Get out your Bibs

It’s that time of year again, when the Zagats tell the media to jump and the only response is, “How ridiculously high?” No end of nonsense was churned out, but the most annoying spewing, as usual, came from the big eaters themselves. This time the WSJournal got snookered into running one of their self-promos posing as an op-ed, and it was even more annoying than usual. The idea that anyone could take their restaurant prices seriously is about as idiotic as presuming Mrs. Chimp actually cared enough to write her piece for the same pages. (Evil illegitimate government oppressing citizens? Bad. But only in Burma.) You would think this of all newspapers would remember that old Mark Twain saying about figures lying. The Skank Twins would be more credible.