The morphing of food blogs into food glossies is continuing apace, which I guess should not be surprising given the stranglehold advertising has over both. But I was still amazed to see that just about every cyber-outlet in town picked up a “story” from the NYPost about a kosher cheeseburger without ever noticing that an essential detail was dead wrong. The “popular” steakhouse in the piece was located on the wrong side of the park. Considering I walk past it at least every other day and have never seen it full, I guess I shouldn’t wonder that the repeat offenders also didn’t realize the shill potential of the original piece was at terrorist alert level. Wait till you hear the echo chamber on chefs with charitable hearts. No shit, Forelock.
Post Category → tin chefs
Zoloft copy goes here
One of the most bizarre ads I’ve spotted in some time shows a seriously depressed-looking guy decked out in chef’s hat and jacket plus knee waders, sitting with chin in hand on rocks at the edge of the ocean. The display type reads, “Been thinking about how to make that lower sodium dinner taste good?” Given that the recipe it offers is for chicken casserole made with canned soup, it should be: Been thinking life is still worth living after shilling for this shit? The only marvel is that a “real” chef was not hired. Rocco must have been busy buffing his can opener.
All these years and now I hear about the dis?
One of my favorite Gary Larson cartoons is of a stupid dog dashing across multiple lanes of traffic while a pack waiting on the other side cheers, “Yay, Rusty’s in the club!” I thought of it when I saw that my biggest fan has officially joined the food coven. Rule No. 1, of course, is that members must be sweet to others’ faces and trash them royally behind their backs. No wonder Mr. Tough Guy shriveled in the water.
There’s something about Mikey
As for the golden shower, my first reaction was that joke we heard long ago in Trinidad (anyone calls you an asshole, just respond: “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Toilet Paper”). But there could be worse unpleasantness — I could have gotten a Food Network gig. And I think second prize is two gigs.
Little incredibles
I missed “Ratatouille” in the theater because of a deadline on a long-forgotten story, but I was lucky enough to get an Xmas DVD from a friend who loved it so much he saw it twice and wanted to play it forward. And of course it was as down-to-the-tiniest-detail brilliant as almost everyone had said, but what most struck me was what a honking allegory it was for immigration. Shades of the Big Homme wanting to hide his Mexicans from mainstream view! Americans — and Parisians — would always prefer not to know who exactly is flipping their omelets, and isn’t it depressing how the party of evil has been able to present hard workers as rats? The major dis of sell-out chefs was also worth the two hours in front of the teevee. (Was Skinner supposed to be Puck?) And I really liked that all the magazine covers on the walls in Gusteau’s office were American. Bon appetit, indeed.
One small chocolate mint?
My consort and I once ate dinner at a Lower East Side restaurant where the chef was huge, the main courses were gargantuan and the salad was ridiculously dainty. When I spotted the perpetrator, I understood instantly: She had no idea what a normal appetite might be. And guess where she’s consulting today? For a newish service that delivers “diet” meals. I suppose the One Fat Lady was otherwise occupied.
Make it strong and make it snappy
My decision to always eat incognito at Pearl Oyster Bar was validated when I stopped in for a late lunch at the bar next to three not-small women whose order was sent to the kitchen with a “VIP this, show ’em some love.” They were whimpering trying to finish their over-heaped plates while I was feeling beaten not even halfway through my usual skate sandwich. Those portions are beyond generous even for the hoi polloi. (I am always absurdly grateful when friends benefit, though.) Besides, who needs extras when you can hear a repeated dis of “Anthony” for advising diners never to order fish on a Monday, or overhear an explanation of the draconian 2:30 cutoff of lunch orders (the tiny kitchen needs every second to prep for dinner)? It’s the best place in town for lunch and a show.
Sorry, we’re open
The wiliest chef in town has to be the Big Homme. We passed his newest place the other night after the underwhelming “Before the Devil,” and I was laughing that it could not possibly start serving New Year’s Eve, given that the front was completely covered in brown paper and work permits. Bob, being a real reporter, noticed a few strategic holes torn in the paper, so he bent over to peek in and said, “It’s full of people eating.” And it was. The inside was completely finished, down to art on the walls, and the tables were all occupied (not by anyone I recognized, interestingly). It was almost as surreal as the party scene in “The Shining.” Even for a guy with many unlikely skills when it comes to self-promotion, the striptease is impressive. When the camouflage comes down, he’ll be beating the throngs off.
Assemble the pochettes
Speaking of not-so-hidden meanings in food photography, it’s just too bad there isn’t a bagnewsnotes for this world. The guy would have an ethanol field day with the former Mme. Rushdie’s new book. She’s using her mouth on the cover, in the first shot inside and of course on an ice cream cone and later a drumstick, while another full-page picture shows her with a bowl positioned over stylistically parted legs and still another has her holding a shrimp as familiarly as a Weinstein’s. Unfortunately, all this model cookery makes too many of the straight-on food photos look like Technicolor yawns backstage at Bryant Park. Reality is not the only bitch.
Julia? Just a DVD
The elves at Sur La Table must be getting into the eggnog — the celebrity gift sets put together this year to separate fools from money are as mismatched as rum and tonic. Ina’s includes a brownie mix and a mixer to beat the hell out of the batter, while Molto’s actually packages restrained Francaise salt and olive oil with his blustery Italiano cookbook. Yummo’s comes with a crappy knife rather than the can opener “her” approach would require, but I guess the recipient could always use it to kill him/herself on opening this autographed lump of coal.
Chicken or BS
If chimps could fly, maybe something really would be done about air traffic chaos. But you have to trust his pulled-from-a-monkey’s-ass promises more than a celebrity chef’s vow to bail on a gig with an airline if his creations do not live up to their promise at 30,000 feet. How could a mega-caterer possibly screw up Nutella, grape jelly and brown banana on cardboard ciabatta any worse than its developer did in dreaming it up? It’s just lucky they don’t charge for airsickness bags yet.
Like ricotta for Rocco
Cheese has been one of the last food groups to retain its dignity despite the unstoppable epidemic of Food Network-spread Tiger Beat silliness. Or so I thought until I wandered past the Murray’s in Grand Central and spotted a new Cheddar from the great Rogue Creamery in Oregon labeled Morimoto Soba Ale. Having invested in a quarter of the $14.99 pound, I can only say they really need to rechristen the show “Insipid Chef.” This stuff makes Monterey Jack look strong.
The X factor
The Mighty Cuozzo is right: That NYmagazine piece about women chefs did sound whiny. Eight years ago, when Dining tackled the subject, prominent women in whites embroidered with their names were hard to find even to interview. Now they’re everywhere, especially downtown. Coming on the heels of a huge benefit that showcased only women chefs, the piece definitely seemed more Laura than Hillary. But at least it brings up a good question: Are girls with knives getting tougher, or are swaggering boys just being exposed as the wagging weenies so many really are?
Subprime
When my little book was prematurely being taken out of print, the asshat publisher offered to let me buy as many remainders as I wanted for like five bucks a copy, and I stocked up on three cases mostly to dispense as gifts. Now I see I should have scarfed the whole press run in hopes of jacking up the price of a rarity. How else to explain the $100-a-copy going rate for one of the more disappointing collections of recipes from an influential chef? The thing landed with a serious kathud after at least a year of gossip about the wrong collaborator, and now it’s selling for the price of appetizers at Per Se while Nancy Silverton’s Caremesque “Desserts” can be ordered online for as little as 40 cents in hardcover. My own grain of sea salt comes from remembering how hard it was to find a copy of Pierre Franey’s “More 60-Minute Gourmet” for my consort while he was off cooking solo in Middle Earth. I paid like 30 bucks for an apparently untouched hardcover online. And when he got home and we went to donate a few bags of high-end detritus to the church thrift shop down the block, what did I spot in the book bin but that very same title in pristine form selling for $2. Got a craving for troublesome coconut tapioca? Pray to St. Vincent de Paul.
Bee-S movie
I love it when carefully arranged PR campaigns go gloriously bad. This should have been such a happy time for a couple down in the Beresford, him with his new movie coming out, her with her cookbook soaring to the top of the best-seller list on a blast of Oprah. Then someone had to go and ruin it all by pointing out similarities in another yummy mummy how-to. Even Martha Stewart, who went through the same hazing at least 25 years ago, probably couldn’t judge what the truth is, but it’s worth noting that the author herself was essentially stolen from her first husband. And it’s scary to think not one but two women actually came up with the idea of raising little Chimps by teaching them deception is good from a very young age. Now one YM has learned the hazards of venturing into the viper pit of publishing without an agent and the other has had a lesson in the nastiness of the food world. Would Oprah have her back for a different kind of flogging?