Off politics, the snark just writes itself when the Schnorrer lectures the Red Guide on integrity. At least Michelin inspectors will “toss around $500 for dinner.”
Are those the best new restaurants or are they the most easily shaken down? And can you really judge a cookbook by its filler (I mean, I’m no fan of the Goopster, but she did hire a good cook to do the important writing: the recipes — and besides, when was the last MFK Pulitzer for a Tin Chef collaborator)? And here’s one way to rake in the dough: Expand your prize categories and charge $100 for every entry — just don’t call it Lotto for bloggers.
I also had to admit to new admiration for the Top Tin among Chefs. For all the Barbaro droppings about kids as critics and cooks these days, he produced the most graphic evidence that they just do not have palates evolved enough to appreciate serious cooking. I have cleaned up similar with my own hands. Cats, of course, are another story.
And I started to wonder if the Schnorrer might have driven off Michelin’s top guy with the annoyance of his remarkably un-self-aware grilling — no job pays well enough for that merde. (That interview was almost Turd Blossom-level projection.) But then I realized the fact that the Michelin top guy’s departure was considered such huge news actually validates the Guide’s importance. He didn’t even exist in American minds just a couple of years ago. Meanwhile, a certain magazine is doing its best to hide a cover line behind its logo on the new issue. Because of course those best new restaurants were all chosen after repeated anonymous paid visits. . . .
Eater National had a pretty good take on the Schnorrer’s new gig as etiquette expert: Essentially, he’s a capitalist tool, his advice spread over multiple clicks to generate page views for advertisers. My question is why these old curs are doing new tricks as 21st-century Miss Mannerses to begin with. Especially when they don’t even know the polite way to ask for a check.
I probably should be more worried about the next book from My Biggest Fan, but what I won’t read can’t hurt me. (Some “friend” or reader will report, I’m sure; he’s very good for traffic.) And I did survive the Porcine Pantload’s straining at stool, after all. Until any acid hits, though, I am enjoying seeing one thing reaffirmed: It’s hard out there for a Schnorrer.
Given that the food world so often feels like seventh grade, it was rather entertaining if not reassuring to see the whole world acting like the food world. The Big O wins the equivalent of 30 stars from Michelin and everyone reacts as if the Schnorrer did the honor? The race is definitely not to the swift.
Just when I’m considering curing myself of my addiction to the series of tubes, Eater has to go and ingest a truckload of steroids, a la Grub Street. Now I’m going to have to keep up with other cities’ gossip and openings and closings, too? I’m drowning, you guys. On the plus side, at least there was a nice little cynical item about the Schnorrer schorring again down DC way. On the minus side, from what tired hat was Gennaro’s name pulled? The real problem with the Upper West Side is not a dearth of decent eating destinations but an impossible-to-quell misperception by nonresidents. Maybe once that joint was worth mentioning, but today you would go there only if you’re into mediocre food and surly service surrounded by the other UPW clichés, old people and strollers. If it’s a secret, they can keep it.
Not sure when I will ever learn two parties in one night will always be three too many — remorse all around after the Brasserie/A Voce back-to-back. But the former was worth trekking to for several reasons, starting with the junkyard dog’s stink-eye (must be nice to know they keep you on because “she’s cheap”) and ending with ease of exit, after the Schnorrer did his spiel (which I wondered about until I saw another oldster is doing similar promo work). I haven’t had a kir royale in donkey’s years, but this one was so syrupy I may not again for millennia. As for the retro apps, I missed all the cold ones but succumbed to a foie gras beignet (no one says beggar’s purse anymore), miniature croque monsieur and escargot nestled in puff pastry, all effective as alcohol sponges. Over in the dread TWC, the wine was more wine-like by far and the energy level was far higher. As was the noise level, of course. The most memorable apps were uni crostini. And the most unforgettable image was of the special wine room for the rich boys. Your health insurance premiums at work. . .