Post Category → flackery

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.

Tits get in your eyes

A chain of strip clubs has sent out an e-release touting its Halloween cocktail, and the garnish is candy corn. I don’t know what’s scarier, the fact that even topless bars have flacks, or the prospect of so many Technicolor yawns ensuing from that combination of triple booze and oily sugar. No wonder they don’t let the “girls” drink at clip joints. The laps would be too sloppy to dance in.

Everything but the book

The CorridorCo might want to take a lesson from Jean-Georges, whose fete promoting his latest cookbook was easily the Qualcomm Stadium of food parties. It was downstairs at Spice Market, and civilized would be an understatement. Seriously good beef/pork/lobster apps were dispensed at a fair clip, servers were constantly materializing with trays of drinks and the vibe was the friendliest I’ve experienced in many a party — to the point that just as I was hearing that one old pal now despises me for something I wrote (and can’t remember) a current nemesis was nodding cordially to me. Usually when you have to pass dueling clipboards at the door the gang-bang is not going to be pleasant. But this was good enough to bring me back for more. It didn’t even look so Pier One-ish anymore, although that could be the Trimbach talking.

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.

Dear dairy

Then there is the grammar-conscious editor friend who sent me her capital crime recently: Some supermarket promoter disseminated a release that mentioned the canned “isle.” Wait till she reads about “gougers” at Artisanal. Given the bizarre crossover of reporting and hustling going on, you have to wonder: Does that mean they actually charged for them?

Purgatory on wheels

Nothing says GU to me like an invitation to a restaurant party that includes an offer of transportation. If I can’t get there by foot or subway (or some combination) it’s not worth the journey. So I feel for the place over in Queens that deemed itself so inaccessible it sent a hired coach into Manhattan for media types. What did that cost a startup? Probably much more than one line of type on the fancy invite listing the closest R stop. Or even a page or two of content on its web site for CrackBerrians to peruse on the long slog in traffic, maybe? At another event last week I got caught up in an animated discussion of how restaurants not quite ready for prime coverage fake their situation by allowing a closeup of a dish rather than a photo of the whole room. I guess if you can’t get the URL location fully locked and loaded, shoot the bus.

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?

Supposedly fun things . . .

Speaking of airborne gravy trains, the WSJournal tried to stop the presses by reporting that restaurant bloggers take freebies. Wait till they hear how much gushing travel coverage in mainstream media comes from something more insidious than an opening party. Consider the advice I just turned up on the google — one warning read: “. . . word travels fast if you take free trips and don’t publish. Your free travel will end very abruptly if you don’t follow through on your end of the bargain.” Serious money is involved now that junket is spelled FAM. Beyond friends in convenient places, even Portland was not discovered by accident. Next hot spot: Colombia. There’s apparently a gastronomic fair there to die for.

Red alert

Not coincidentally, after our brush with the movie star, we watched “Midnight Cowboy” again, and I could only think of the Michelin when we saw Ratso doing his “I’m walkin’ here” routine. The poor guide is about that unmoored, judging by the panel it has set up to discuss restaurant reviewing in New York to try to shine some attention on the new edition. One speaker is Rogetgirl, the other a reviewer best described as “former.” And what either Daily denizen has to do with the Restaurant Witness Protection Program is a mystery. Or, come to think of it, maybe it’s not.

And it could be worse. They could be featuring the Mammamia who is filling out the Skinnygirl caricature on an unnecessary new restaurant/service web site. I have to confess I dissed yelp.com early on. But I now think the future may lie more with the youthful rabble than with the endless repackaging now going on. The internets is starting to feel like a supermarket putting clean Saran and fresh sell-by dates on old chicken. Somehow I don’t think deadlydull.com has a bright future, even if they do “Scanner Darkly” it.

Sleeping dogs

Bullshit detectors out in the newly ordained Eden on the Willamette are emitting some curious signals. Five years out of close proximity to the making of sausage, I don’t quite know what to think. But there certainly is a lot of A & P overlap when you google blogs.

Off Broadway

It’s the world’s biggest contest without end, but the prize for the most ill-advised press release so far has to go to the restaurant announcing a ratatouille promotion and advising diners to come and get it before the Health Department banishes “the chef” back to the sewers. To carry the theme out, the owner should pipe UB40 into the garden to reassure the strong-stomached that there’s a rat only in the kitchen and it’s not making Babe into porchetta (although that at least would be Italian). There really should be a new adage: A restaurateur who flacks herself has a fool for a client.