Speaking of crimes, the Marquis de Sade supposedly said only the first murder is hard, and I thought of that again when the obit for the White House chef ran, with the reminder that Mrs. O’s predecessor had canned him after she and her pretzels-and-O’Doul’s husband moved in and didn’t want any of that fancy Clinton food — let the dignitaries eat brioche enfolding hot dogs. Some say she has her Lady Macbeth moments, and apparently the deepest corners of her closets are scrubbed very clean. But I envisioned her reacting to the sad news out of New Mexico by just taking another long draw on a cigarette and languorously turning the page of some potboiler involving a highway out in West Texas.
I’m not so encouraged to read that the agent of change has decided the new White House chef is going to be the same as the old White House chef, but I can see how canning a minority woman might not have gone over so well with mothers of American cooking on the organic/local warpath. And with kids moving in, at least she will know how to make hot dogs and peanut butter sandwiches, thanks to the Chimp’s very refined palate. Having read enough of her straining-at-sophisticated menus, though (“artichoke and Reggiano cheese ravioli,” anyone?), I think the best thing you can say about her is that she is not a saint-certified celebrity chef.
So much for the debunking of the idiocy that wives of Presidents actually cook. Mrs. Chimp, pimping the Skankier Twin’s wedding and flogging “their” book, actually took to the teevee to fix some food. I can’t imagine how it went over in Mother’s home, but I’m sure everyone panic-buying rice at Costco appreciated the message: Let ’em eat oyster po’ boys.
Given that everything the Chimp does is more about image than action, you would think the lump in his bed might have had the good sense to rein in the holiday overkill this year. Food banks all over the country are crying the empty blues, but it’s Excess Accomplished on Pennsylvania Avenue: shrimp and ham and steak and crab cakes and tamales and endless asparagus in December, and that’s even before the 18 desserts at each reception. Not surprisingly, even the menu lies — “creamed pan drippings” sounds to me an awful lot like good old “gravy.”
Luckily, he now has one of the Skank Twins cleaned up and shipped out to make him look less cretinous by contrast. Anyone who believes she actually had anything to do with writing a book probably still thinks Robo-Mom baked those Cowboy Cookies back in 2000, the recipe for which has since been scrubbed off the White House web site. While I was looking for it yet again, though, I found out how horse-fearing the tough guy really is: The family recipe for guacamole calls for eight avocados. And exactly one jalapeno. I guess we should just be glad he didn’t invade Mexico for harboring habaneros.
We always knew he had no brain. Now the Chimp is proving he has no heart. Every shameless photo op lately seems to be in a cafeteria line with troops as camera fodder. The implication is that he’s sacrificing for the cause in eating what they do. But everybody knows he prefers chow to cuisine, tube steaks over Kobe beef. Have the perks of power ever been squandered on a more juvenile appetite?