As “rats go wild on subway”

The latest sign the rich are far, far dumber than you and I is an offer at a certain four-star restaurant. How pathetic would your life have to be to pay $1,425 to spend the night in a hotel just so you could get up at 5 in the morning to watch the royal wedding with strangers on “monitors strategically placed around the room”? I guess megascreen teevees would make the WTF miniature french toast look too small.

Halibut, pounded through a pie hole

Lost-in-translation of the week: One of the British papers dutifully reported on the made-for-denutted-media outburst by Wasilla’s own Taco Crunch Supreme but didn’t realize she wasn’t reaching for “some more ingredients” in trashing the regal Mrs. O. I guess I can’t blame the reporter and editors for not knowing what marshmallows, graham crackers and Hershey bars add up to. Whenever I read a hed using “pud” from their side of the Atlantic, I want to spell it out, too.

Egg Not, embellished

And I also am now in possession of what I guess is the first Twitter cookbook. Shove it back somewhere constricted, and not just because the foreword is by Panchito. The only laugh is his overwriting: Two adjectives alone would nearly eat up a single Tweet. Twitter is not meant for the mainstream; I often find myself deleting emails I want to send to friends who are not in the cult because I realize they will never be able to wade through, let alone translate the abbreviations and symbols. A link to a good recipe database would be the best Tweet of all. I didn’t waste much time with it, but the guacamole recipe is indexed on the wrong page and also sounds like one only an Irishwoman could love. Nice stunt, but even Strand ain’t buying.

“Nice lady. But boring!”

Not to trivialize the latest WikiLeaks dump, but I’ll admit to entertaining myself imagining what similar dispatches from the old Food Coven would reveal. At the same time the smiling faces were cranking out cooking-is-love smarm, you know they had to be backbiting like nobody’s business.

Just don’t ask the original title

My consort and I did not go down the heritage path this year for a number of reasons, but we did buy local from our regular guy, which turned out to be a trip. We got to our neighborhood Greenmarket early to pick up our order and were told no 20- to 22-pound bird was available because “they screwed up on the farm.” Apparently the order book had gone missing, so the vendor had only dainty fowl to dispense. But he did have a couple on their way up from Union Square. And so I guess we have to atone a little because our carbon footprint was slightly larger than we’d hoped. Only in New York do you get turkey in a cab. Which sounds like a song.

Put the salt in the sodium

A little secret of Jewish home cooking has apparently been revealed in an ad in this week’s “slingers”: Canned broth makes the memories, not Mom slaving over a hot pot of bones. Especially the vegetable and the reduced-sodium broths that have been bringing families to the table since 1888. If I had any money, I’d be investing in psychotherapy clinics. Or not. Does this mean guilt is dead?

Brine backlash

File under onward and downward: The dessert innovation this Thanksgiving is three pies baked inside cakes and glued together with frosting; Go Fuck Yourself traveling around the world like a turducken, with his Airstream inside a cargo plane, was more appealing. (Now if they deep-fried either travesty, we could talk.) And there’s something sad about a once-renowned restaurant now happily competing with Joe Allen’s for the after-theater burger crowd.  On the plus side, a hunter who shot and cooked a wild duck with an engorged liver finally provided graphic evidence of what sentient beings already understood: Those birds will naturally eat till their innards are fit for sautéing.

Only Beluga & Corton-Charlemagne 4 Rush

This was quite the week for the Big Homme. One day he’s hanging in the White House garden with Mrs. O, and on another his restaurant bathroom is the talk of the town. If the celeb in question had a better handler, that “cocaine” could have been laughed off as sugar from the bombolini. As it is, I’m thinking we need tax cuts for the ridiculously rich so they can trash more super-high-end restaurants. No wonder white-tablecloth joints are dying. They attract the sleaziest sort.

Tavern on the food court, also. Too.

In chaos is a terrible place to live, so I’m pretty late and seriously out of it with verbal bile this week; I’ve been doing more up-close-and-furious venting on the home invaders who took an elephant gun to a mouse in our apartment. But I’m checking in briefly to say the high point of my week was sitting down to a press lunch and seeing “amouse” on the menu. Someone should have “pre-fixed” that sucker.

Premier Anderson’s

Just back from a flying trip to Buffalo (no restaurants were harmed), I’m still marveling at the rather porcine cashier at Office Max who mocked the sales tax charged on the phone my consort bought his mom. She had no idea what the 7 (or so) percent was used for, which puts her right up there with the idiot running for Congress who believes salmonella in eggs could be prevented if only we got the government off the chickenshit producers’ back and simply let buyers beware. Can’t these cretins just move to Somalia and start food blogs, please?

Absent at the reunion?

As always, someone misconstrued my Tweet when I linked to the Slate-esque confession by a novelist that she was responsible for Gourmet’s demise because of its indulgence of her free-spending ways. My take was that failure has a million mothers in this situation — who hasn’t been blamed besides the real culprit: the enthusiasm gap? (As I’ve hammered repeatedly, this was a Joni Mitchell line in action: No one missed it till it was gone.) But I’m so cynical I realized the come-to-Jesus moment occurred for the most craven of reasons — I read it only a day after a big House & Home feature and just thought: Someone has a new book coming out. It’s link bait, formerly arboreal media- style.

“Gifted at being on television”

I may be no great judge of aesthetics, but I have to wonder WTF the designers cobbling together crap for the queen of EVOO are thinking. With their latest cobbling, they’ve actually topped the scrap bowl in Technicolor Yawn pattern — the oil dispenser bears an uncomfortable resemblance to a female urinal. Next up: a padella for paella.