Archive for the ‘molto ego’ Category

Move your hyphen, pls: Do not want goat in cheesecake

October 2010

Way more obsessive diners than I, people who have eaten more Italianesque in New York than Italian in Italy, can have the final say on whether Da Joe-Mario deserves four stars. I could only throw the paper down on reaching yet another “food that leads to gasps and laughs.” I’ve been eating a long damn time and am still unfamiliar with this weird phenomenon, Roget’s 876.8. And I have certainly never heard ha-ha-ha, crudo, let alone ho-ho-ho, spaghetti.

Matt Bai for restaurant critic, tho

September 2010

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.

Dubbio, they say

August 2010

Apparently I was the only food writer/blogger in town not invited to any of the opening parties for the Seconda Venuta. Was it something I wrote?

Gracias, Gawker, for “Cajun hobbit”

January 2010

Thank allah for “Iron Chef.” To put all the ridiculous disillusionment with the Big O in perspective, it was only a year ago that the White House was occupied by a useful idiot whose idea of a good meal was a pretzel and an O’Doul’s, with his wife nowhere near to catch him as he fell. Now half the political wisecrackers I follow are Tweeting on Mrs. O and her stronger-than-Alice crusade to get Americans to eat better. If the tradeoff is a little orange tainting the White House, I guess it’s worth it.

Chick. Peas.

November 2009

I know we’re all supposed to pretend 2001 to 2009 never happened, but I had one thought on hearing — and hearing, and hearing, and hearing — the big White House party was crashed: The Secret Service must have been worn out by all those years of chasing the Skank Twins on their margarita binges. Not to mention hiding the pretzels from the Chimp. The return of honor and dignity and a wine-drinker in chief must be freaking everyone out. But I really blame “Iron Chef.” Once the freckled calves got in, the barbarians were through the gates.

Right to bore

November 2009

And it was a rare misstep by the hyper-image-savvy White House to have Mrs. O pose alongside Molto’s bare flesh and schticky footwear. Even Carla Bruni could not deflect attention as assertively, but hers was visual seduction, not assault. Judging by the reaction in my email, DI/DO should have been delivered with a free bottle of brain bleach. Then again, what better way to get your eat-right-and-exercise message across than standing with poster boys for the second deadly sin?

Guess the 5-year-old was busy

May 2009

Maybe it was not intentional, but the CIA sent a pretty clear message of what its graduates are expected to aspire to by choosing as commencement speaker a chef known primarily for appearing on the teevee. Apparently there are more jobs to be had on “Top Chef” than in hot, crazy kitchens where you get your hands dirty and your bones achy. At least Molto Croced the walk rather than just talking the talk.

No clogs were thrown

March 2009

Speaking of which, for once Molto Ego has my support. Sometimes assholes acting like total assholes need to be called assholes. Royalty or no royalty in the audience. I would ask where the organizers were who could have forestalled the whole incident, but I’m not stupid. It was all about getting the asses into the seats, not about wrangling them. But can’t anyone here read a news story? The ringtone was not for the orange iPhart.

Apologists accepted

January 2009

For the first time I almost felt sorry for Molto Ego, after Jay Rayner flew in to have his gimlet-eyed way with him. You could almost understand why the guy is challenging a certain debunker to a virtual Diamond Jim duel. If he keeps eating and drinking, he won’t have to face the reality sketched by the out-of-towner in the tersest of phrases: More is not always better when it comes to restaurants. It figures, though, that just hours after I found the Guardian piece at my usual fourth stop of the day I spotted the Maroon leaping up to say Molto’s parish hall is just the pope’s pajamas. You can fool some of the fools some of the time. . . My favorite detail was that the orangeman had to do the Brit-and-pony show with a flack in tow. Number one, if he’s so big, why does he need one? And number two, if it’s for damage control, someone might want to invest in a drool bucket. The whole world is reading.

“Inspired by respect,” indeed

December 2008

As if I can’t get riled up enough on my own, my favorite curmudgeon alerts me to the craven new line of Molto sauces enriched with Ego. Next at the supermarket: Orange Charmin. But even those were not as risible as the “Mexican” pizzas coming from the guy some fools think could actually be in line to be White House pretzel baker. I don’t care if you can find pizza everywhere in Mexico, fat and stupid Americans do not need pizzas with “cilantro and Mexican herbs” in the freezer case. No wonder illegal immigration is down. Imagine struggling across the Rio Grande only to find Chevy’s looking authentic.

Odd ends

November 2008

As my most verbally agile young friend puts it, I have a date shortly at a clean, well-lit table where I’ll be the center of attention, so I’m rationing my bile for now. But I have to say the latest cash-in from Molto Ego, overpriced watches, should be sold as orange badges of cretinism. And I have to wonder if the Egotist really ate chestnuts off the soles of his shoes, as his lede implied. And does no one at the Taj Sulzberger understand that with food sections, once you’ve had color you’ll never go back? And things must be flusher there than I realized if a two-course dinner for $42 is considered a deal. Well, I guess that is only 12 shares of stock.

And then there’s the sad reality that the genius of Monte Carlo has hooked up with the Rachael Ray of France, to neither’s credit. The book party was the most dispiriting in ages, with a strange (and small) crowd in a tired-looking room (upstairs); the great man was there but his collaborator had moved on to bigger things already, leaving her scary agent to do the hustle. Someone must really have something on “the Escoffier of our time” to get him to promote food that has been so bastardized; the photography is almost stomach-turning. How do you say nuked the fridge en francaise?

Doonesbury meets Food & Appetit

October 2008

Did you hear the one about the restaurant critic who used chefs as caterers at her wedding? Oh. Right. Now  how about an exposé of one who doesn’t lie down with freebies? Some days I truly wonder if Turd Blossom did not train with food people who blithely market cow-plop blooms as cardoons. The ones that were reportedly in the Greenmarket in July and are suddenly the fave thing for November. Yeow, indeed. 

Apple and oranges

September 2008

Scoop of the week has to be that Molto is a bit closer to Minimo. Having seen the sidewalk surveillance video, though, I doubted it, of course. Then I spotted the promos for the road show and reconsidered. He is smaller. Or is he just using one of the oldest tricks in the before-and-after diet-photography book? Stand next to a twig and even a pine tree looks like a sequoia.

Yahoo whopper

August 2008

My pal whom I’m now going to call Formaggio Arrabbiato had great descriptions of both Molto Ego’s recent supermarket ad and the latest product bearing his name: He’s finally “nuked the fridge” in promoting something “as ordinary as factory cheese can be.” The former phrase certainly applies to Google now that it is reduced to drumming up press for a Krispy Kreme burger served in its cafeteria. What’s dispiriting about that is not the diabetes-inducing idiocy of it but the limits of the imagination involved. Eclair hot dog would have been a slightly better representation of the core business. Whatever happened to metatags?

To Michigan with fleur de sel

August 2008

Some days it’s hard to slog through the series of tubes without hip waders. The amount of horseshit piled up in one tiny brief about Molto’s vacation valise was enough to choke the hungriest herd of dung beetles. Eight to 10 kinds of cheese? Dehydrated corn in summertime? Crespone salami? Give me the proverbial fucking break. Of course, I don’t blame him or his beleaguered people, though. Idiots ask idiotic questions, and you have to provide pretentious answers.

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