Speaking of which, I dragged my consort to a party at a new restaurant down near Wall Street, and it turned out to be a total scrum where wine was being doled out in tasting-size dribbles once we fought our way to the bar, while the line for the lavish food stretched for miles. Worse was the crowd, mostly guys with that weekend-in-the-sun-with-alcohol skin color. Bob just looked around and said: “These are the fuckers who stole all the money.” Later I read in the WSJournal that supermarket chains are freaking because their profits are down because more people are dependent on food stamps, and food stamps are being cut. It’s kinda hard to get the “free delivery with $200 purchase” deal when that’s your whole allotment.
Another party turned out to be barely worth the RT subway fare. Promise me a cranberry bog in midtown and I want surreal, goddamn it. The pearly-whites CEO who seemed to have been swiped from “Dancing With the Stars” nearly qualified, as did the puffy celeb “chef” (I don’t think I’d like to meet his tailor). But the “bog” looked exactly like what it was, fresh berries wasted on a one-layer-deep stunt, and the fake harvesters looked even more so. I left before they got through all the “prizewinning” dishes; pork and more pork with endless guancialeboning just doesn’t do it for me anymore. Fire-roasted or not. Jeebus, does everyone learn menu-writing at Applebee’s these days?