My consort and I watched the extraordinary “Four Months, Three Weeks and Two Days” from the very first row of the theater thanks to Bob Time, but it was still impossible to miss how powerfully food was woven through the story. The nature mort of fish over the hotel bed was a rich touch, as was the dog’s dinner of wedding leftovers. Plus how naive to socially inept would two girls have to be to bring cakes to offer an abortionist? Mostly there was the long scene at the table at a birthday party, which was excruciating but sounded oddly familiar. Then I placed it: A bunch of New Yorkers sitting around nattering about chicken liver. Oy. As they say.
Post Category → celluloid cuisine
Liar’s tartare
“There Will Be Blood” may have been painful — I could barely walk after three hours crammed in my seat — but it was worth it not just for the sharp relevance but for two scenes. One takes place in a restaurant where the evildoer oilman (or is that redundant?) brings his son and uncouthly demands “steak, whiskey and goat’s milk” before another table of slightly slicker petroleum scumbags comes in and not only knows enough to wait for a menu but immediately starts nattering away 2007-style, wondering whether the fritters are the way to go. Cash v. class, the eternal struggle. Even better was the ending, when the profiteering E.O. is living in luxury but still eating just steak, and obscenely overcooked steak at that. It pretty much illustrates why restaurants in rich neighborhoods are inevitably so abysmal. Money can’t buy you taste. No wonder I have visions of GoFuckYourself eating his meat before it can even coagulate.