I also saw an uplifting little piece on how the site of the meatpacking plant in Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle” has been converted into a vertical farm. My sad reaction was that of course it had to involve tilapia; all these enterprises seem to do so. And that just means mud with gills.
Also, too, the non-feathered cardinal with the private chef in his mansion, the one who shows the faithful every day that gluttony is no longer a sin, made a splash by saying you can pick up birth control at any ol’ 7-Eleven. I knew that trashy chain would be the death of Manhattan. Guys in gowns apparently now shop there. But what’s really amazing is how clearly he has exposed wingnut thinking. Attempting to ban Big Gulps is tyranny. Banning “slut pills” is liberty. There must be a revolving-wiener joke in there somewhere.
Thinking some thoughts. Underlining them twice. There must be something really wrong with me. I do not want sick people cooking/serving my food and am very happy NYC now has a law requiring paid leave for restaurant workers (and, of course, others). With all the scaremongering over increased prices, I guess I need to point out that the food biz finds many ways to pass along increased costs. (Try to find a bottle of wine on a list for under $40 these days). As I have noted many times, the sickest I’ve gotten beyond the incident with the baby butt on the falafel counter was after the waiter in Florence wiped his runny nose and set down my plate. FFS, I washed my sauvignon blanc bottle the other day after a cashier with pinkeye merely touched it. So I guess I have to say this one more time: Typhoid Mary was a cook. And Hepatitis C is out there, waiting to shut down your establishment after one worker goes on an unfortunate vacation. It had to be someone like Escoffier who first realized an ounce of prevention is worth 10 pounds of cure. That new miracle remedy, after all, runs a grand a dose.
Today’s lesson: ice cream sandwiches are meant to be craptastic. Artisanal don’t cut it. // Finally settled a little debate over what espelette is: Separatist paprika. // Apparently if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. Ms. “How to Cook a Wolf” must be spinning in her urn. // Funny how it’s always mice in a fancy fud joint. And rats in a real one. // A whole generation is growing up not knowing a kittybag was once an aluminum foil swan. // Canard was word o’ the day on a couple of political blogs. No mention that you need to shred a few birds to make rillettes. // Pizza, you ask? Didn’t we already get the ultimate advice? // Maybe we could both vanquish the abomination “foodies” and disempower NRA nutz by calling them “gunnies”? // Remember when the smart kidz were thinking you should watermark your fud fotos? Good times, Getty would say. // And some deaths you the e-slimed just want to note with a hearty R.I.Pee. Funny how that “hefty but healthy” tome never sold.
What’s the first sign you’re going to pay out the ass for a a glass of wine? Every window in the restaurant is shrouded by drapes, so you can’t see the inner sanctum before penetrating it, sitting down and opening the sticker-price shock encased in leatherette. Private clubs are never cheap. But at least at this one we got a little something extra with our $14 wine: the sight of the bartender soaking napkins in booze to hand to the hostess to wipe down the menu covers. Beware the well vodka . . .
And speaking of personalities behind bars: What’s worse than a mixologist who can’t make a margarita? A bartender who thinks he can “invent.”
No wonder I’m distracted. There seems to be more than the usual amount of teh stupid burning lately. A chilling new aggregation of climate change reports makes it very clear we’re dinosaurs waiting to happen, fast, and still I see idjits asserting that “humans adapt very well — we build houses with furnaces or AC — so too bad about all the other species.” That’s like thinking you can just order in when the food riots break out.
And maybe we won’t have to wait around until the trashed planet totally melts down. Hog farmers, in their wisdom and greed, seem to be accelerating toward the Apocalypse all on their own. They’re feeding piglets pig blood, and what could possibly go wrong? Aside from piglet epidemic diarrhea virus? The story didn’t spell it out, but I assume the cute little critters poop themselves to death before they can grow into real Babes with chops just falling off ’em. Oh, well. Cheap industrial bacon on/in everything was fun while it lasted . . .
To elaborate on a 140-character rant: Somehow I suspect Ferran Adria would know exactly where to shove that monocle merde: Back into the end of the alimentary canal from which it spewed.
Amplifying: I’m so old I lived through a whole restaurant era when Mr. Magooish Luddites could only gift each other little flashlights and credit-card-sized magnifying glasses as the lights went down and presbyopia went up on some victims’ radar. Thanks to my style-forward consort, though, I had the coolest accoutrement early on, so early on that none of the stodges among whom I worked seemed interested. Today I suspect why: A monocle is not a lorgnette. But an asshole will always be an asshole.
This odd, dispiriting, dispirited but “ain’t ancient hippies cool!” piece should have been headlined Funereal Is the New Modern for Farmers. But it did contain one valuable nugget. “An Oregon seed farmer” notes that he got into that corner of the business because he saw “seed was the key to wealth and independence.” Whatever else you think about the GMO issue, know that the key to Big Ag’s patent&destroy strategy is exactly that: Control the seeds and you control everything. (Sorry — nothing funny about it.)
Maybe I have eaten/shopped in too many real-world joints. But somehow I suspect California’s new law requiring food handlers’ hands to be encased in latex is not gonna make anything better. Hands get washed. Gloves, I have seen too often, go into bathrooms and come back out to serve again.
The latest evidence America just ain’t exceptional: Brits are going hungry, too. I did like this line, that the working poor have been “long a part of the social landscape in America.” Sorry. I remember there once was a shining moment when the rich didn’t have to wonder what the poors were eating that night. But then, as the muddled but good-hearted “Place at the Table” illuminates, along came a useful idiot out of California. My consort “rented” that doc the other week from our own public Netflix, the NYPL, and I saw new merits in it even though it remains a mess. “Food insecurity”? It’s complicated — li’l kids can be obese, hungry kids can own horses, well-meaning teachers can sweet-sell $5+ honeydews to kids whose families can’t even afford an apple to slice up for five. But in the end, you walk away from the teevee thinking food banks and soup kitchens are just like everyone else in this country post-Alzheimer’s-Patient-in-Chief: Trying to pretend the trickle-down is not actually a golden shower.
The reaction to the kicking-a-cripple cuts in food stamps made me wish the Big O would indeed open his FEMA camps and start the impounding of the “patriots” already. So much ugliness is being spewed, even by people who would have you believe they believe “food is love.” I keep hammering away that fast food chains and Walmarts are mooching much more, letting taxpayers compensate for their shit wages, but resentment is the stone-soup du jour in this country. Jay Gould was on to something: “I could hire one half of the working class to kill the other half.” And his heirs sell Brawny paper towels and Dixie cups.
I could understand the awe the nonagenarian rich guy inspired with his $100 nightly treats for himself. Sure, he earned it. But given that one in five olds in NYC relies on food assistance, you gotta wonder about his priorities and the weird tone-deafness of a section that natters about the great divide but celebrates excess (tell us what was on the table, ye who have no money worries?) Forget the four-dollar organic greens. The average geriatric female in NYC would be happy with a feast o’Friskies.
And I’m way behind on excitable exposés, but the hometown paper’s big one on the mad scientists’ struggle to save the orange industry (not crop: industry) caused a dustup that somehow didn’t produce a single good answer to why the world needs so much juice. I mean, really. What is it good for? Scurvy’s been cured, while the stuff always rationed in teeny glasses when I was a kid is now poured and drunk like water. One of the most valuable lessons I learned in a weeklong course in “nutritional cuisine” at the CIA is that you might as well be drinking Coke — it’s about as caloric and only slightly less nutritious. Better to eat an orange and get the fiber. Or at least read up on how metastasized an industry built on fruit once seen only in Christmas stockings has grown. . . .