No scanner surprise at DC Central Kitchen

I tried to tune out all 9/11 necro-narcissism while hoping the 10th anniversary of the Iraq invasion inspires more, and real, introspection. But when I heard the Chimp showed up for the memorials I could only imagine what the reaction would have been if a notorious cook had turned up at her victims-of-negligence funerals. Typhoid Mary, though, probably had more shame.

Isn’t it Rich?

One great thing about the stop-time, eerily silent weekend in Manhattan was that we woke up on Sunday morning to neither of our usual hometown papers on our doormat. No deliveries were getting through; even Famous Famiglia was closed for the first time I’ve ever noticed. Which meant I was spared having to see whatever blithering Panchito engaged in and could instead just watch him get eviscerated all over Twitter and the blogs all day. Happiest part: Finally, after nearly 10 years of me getting ragged on for using that nickname, people have caught on to the idiot who was responsible for bestowing it. Next hurricane, though, should start on Friday so we’re spared 6,000 ways to eat your lobster. How does that fit with sustainable/local/who-will-feed-the-poors?

Dog-whistling raccoons

That said, every time I see the furor over the 1,700-calorie cheeseburger — the shit heard ’round the world — I just think: Dead boyfriend in the middle of the road. The Lump in the Bed was damned lucky with the media. Now they’re so desperate for traffic they’re throwing out the same red meat to the kkkrazies that was chewed over endlessly in 2009 and again in 2010. Imagine the “whitey tape” hysteria if Mrs. didn’t eat cheeseburgers.

Going medieval on those carrots

Just back from Parma and Milan, I’m obviously having a slow time processing where I was and where I am. But I do know Panchito should be lambasted, not lauded, for his nonfood debut — he had his head so far up the Chimp’s ambling ass he apparently didn’t notice equal rights were being held back a decade along with everything else in this country (all chaps, no saddle?) And I do know it was nice to be among people demoralized about their own leader for a change (as the Economist put it, he screwed an entire country). For once, the only jokes I heard about the occupants of the White House were lame ones, about Mrs. O and her ortus. I guess they’d be happier if she were growing wars? Mowing down boyfriends?

Choking on a macaron

All those fools who voted for a dry drunk they wanted to have a beer with must have been happy to see what the Chimp said he was eating when he got the Osama news: a fucking soufflé. Just the sort of Freedom Food you’d crave after clearing brush. But my favorite detail is that the restaurant, which also boasts of serving very American “vin et Champagne,” has to define its signature offering on its website for the rubes — “a fluffy baked dish made with egg yolks and beaten egg whites.” Which sounds a bit like yellowcake, non?

Remember the halibut

For all the carping about the menu for the Hu state dinner at the People’s House of America, it’s worth noting that the last time the Chinese president was in the capital the Chimp couldn’t stay alert past lunchtime. But I guess we’ll have to wait 30 years for the “everybody knows” admissions by the media that there was a problem — not Alzheimer’s but Jack Daniel’s.

In the top 14

Getting the serious stuff out of the way first: It was quite telling that Giffords’ husband issued a statement advising anyone who wants to do some good as she heals to donate to the Tucson Community Food Bank (and the Red Cross). One reason my birth state has gone batshit insane — more than usual — is that it’s not exactly in prime economic health. The Chimp did a number on this country . . .

Coffee Kool-Aid, now with alcohol

So many shiny objects are being dangled so frenetically these days it’s hard to choose which one to pounce on, but I guess the sorry reality that the worst president ever is out trying to rewrite history with the help of corporate media is the most offensive. Given his record in allowing 3,000-plus Americans to be slaughtered in the “homeland” while he was asleep at the switch on the “ranch,” this really is like Typhoid Mary having the gall to flog a cookbook.

I thought iPads collected cooties

I have also been slow to catch on to why so many chefs are opening ambitious restaurants in airports, so I thank Andrew Sullivan for coming up with the perfect description of where you now have to spend hours before flying: police states with shopping. I’m so old I remember when the best you could hope for was a cafeteria line with $15 congealed crap; Chili’s was a major upgrade. But now half the marquee names in food are setting up kitchens almost on the tarmac. And what it all means is that the game has been rigged to lure the sheep into the pen hours ahead of flights so they have time to spend more money, since they know there will be no food once the plane finally takes off. Last time my consort and I flew we spent longer in the security line at JFK than the flight to Buffalo took and had to grab sawdusty sandwiches rather than a real meal. Message: Get there even earlier next time. Make what might be your last meal worth it by enriching a boldface name. . .

At least canola’s cheap

Who could be surprised no one wants to ask Panchito about the Chimp, only about restaurants? It’s awkward for everyone to bring up that epic fail. But I was actually on the side of the Section Formerly Known as DI/DO when it came to the nonsense about covering cheaper restaurants. The embarrassing new public editor is really embarrassing, and not just for comparing the food pages to a moribund design magazine. Smart people without money are probably reading the Village Voice (online) rather than wasting $2 a day on a publication that still thinks $25 and Under has meaning 16 years on. Democracy is no mission for a paper with $4,900 bags to sell.

Shake Shack beeper going off on Level Seven

Turns out the soulless Chimp looks to have plagiarized much of his shameless book, but I suspect what @rudepundit is calling the “Ball jar Bush baby” tale is original. It’s just weird enough that the literal son of a bitch would have been warped by a canned fetus. What I want to know is how Panchito missed such a juicy tidbit. Scratch that. I already know. He was sucking and blowing. Or vice versa.

Candy corn at home, blackface at the bar

Back in the Chimp’s reign of error, I remember being in a restaurant in Torino where the owner asked if we were Americanos and I had to say: “No, no — New Yorkese.” Guess I’m going back to that since the Big O lost the equivalent of one of three Michelin stars  and everyone’s decided he’s out of business. At least we got some amusement in this miserable campaign season: Semi-Homemade was kept as far out of sight as the Chimp himself. Apparently the big fear was having New Yorkese realize if we wanted to eat her crap we would have stayed in Iowa.

Matt Bai for restaurant critic, tho

I know we’re not supposed to blame the Chimp for anything anymore in the United States of Amnesia, but I do want to note, one more time, that I was not the one who nicknamed Panchito Panchito. But if the diminution fits, why not run with it? I kinda like “Malto,” though. Misspell the second half as Eggo and you’d have a very Boehner-colored frozen waffle to accessorize the Crocs.

Made for yellowcake

After reading about Dubliners’ egg-throwing reaction to the Poodle’s memoir, I’m thinking the salmonella eggs should never have been pasteurized. Doesn’t the Chimp have a book tour scheduled this fall? The evil Iowans could have cleaned up, so to speak, selling yolked missiles.