Goodies First

It Takes Two

The world is converging. Today both The Village Voice and Epicurious are bemoaning food writing clichés. I’ve had a few thoughts on the matter, myself. I’ll admit that toothsome really doesn’t bother me that much. Sinful makes me want to hurl.

 Then I was vindicated on two food dislikes. I know I recently said that the only foodstuffs I hate are melon, edible flowers and stemmy leaves, however, there are two that I don’t exactly hate but would prefer not to eat: green peppers and honey. Turns out I am not alone. Thank you Ruth Reichl and Sarah DiGregorio.

Aw, Nuts

Is it normal to eat five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches a day? Someone I know was asked by HR to have a talk with one of his staff members who has been taking advantage of the free peanut butter and jelly provided to the company as part of some health initiative. Said culprit also walked off with three slices of a cake (king cake, I wonder?) another coworker had brought back from a trip to New Orleans.

These are people who make what I assume to be six figures so the greedy gus may be hungry, but he’s certainly not hard up for food. Is there a logical explanation?

One, I think it’s funny that this type of thing would get reported to a superior (my company doesn’t even have an HR department). And two, how on earth do you approach such a topic with an employee? “So, I hear you really enjoy your PB&Js?” Maybe I could get Social Qs to advise
(and yes, I'm still pissed that comments are no longer allowed on that column).

I Don't Even Eat Bananas

If Denny’s is anti Nannerpuss, who needs them. We don’t have them in NYC, anyway. More importantly, where can I find a restaurant that serves an octo-banana atop a pile of pancakes?

Wow, I love this mom who rigged up her own Nannerpuss. (Heavens, it’s completely SFW.)

Yes, it’s taken me a while to digest some of those Super Bowl ads.

Cocktails for the Potentially Non-Jet-Setting

I’ve been sifting through the padded envelopes of old cookbooks my mom has been sending me and reacquainting myself with missives I forgot I even owned.

I decided a stiff drink was order now that I’m sick to my stomach over Suvarnabhumi International Airport being shut down by protesters 36 hours before my heavily planned trip (with three hotels already paid for) to Thailand. Seriously, if this gets fucked up there will be hell to pay by someone, something…I’m not sure who will face the brunt of my ire yet.

Luckily, 1965’s lovely Easy to Make Maidens & Cocktails took my mind off of civil unrest in faraway places. I kind of love the unflattering illustrations that punctuate this charmingly sexist bar guide. Each liquor is assigned a type of maiden with a description of her personality. I’ve always thought of myself as a whiskey girl, despite rarely ordering it anymore.

 I know, I know, American whiskeys are super trendy now. But if you go into a non-dive that’s not a prohibition-era-speakeasy, it seems wrong to order something as rough as whiskey on the rocks. Whiskey sours, my old drink of choice, seem too musty (though I thinking of reclaiming it again). And no one is going to know how to make most cockamamie drinks from days of yore such as the Hot Deck (whiskey, sweet vermouth, Jamaica ginger [I’m assuming that’s ginger beer]) or a Beau Brummel (bourbon, orange juice, prunelle, sugar syrup). What’s a civilized way to drink whiskey? It’s still 2008 so that would probably dictate something involving elderflower liqueur or homemade bitters.

Not a question for today. Instead, I flipped through this book for something unique yet doable with ingredients already on hand was no easy task. I kept getting thwarted by lacking crucial items like Amer Picon, Benedictine or Chartreuse.

I finally arrived at the Café Kirsch. ¾ ounce Cognac, ¾ ounce, Kirschwasser, ¾ ounce strong coffee. Shake with cracked ice and strain into chilled cocktail glass. I did as told and came up with a strangely pale tiny drink. I would up the three-quarters to full ounces. Well, assuming I would make this again, which I’m not sure I will.

The scent was coffee, yet the overall taste was strong and bitter, kind of firewatery with a hint of cherry poking through. This is definitely not for sweet beverage lovers. I’m not sure that it’s for anyone. There was a missing component needed to smooth things over.

Maybe I will tackle pousse cafes next. Now, that’s beyond retro. I’ve always been enamored by the layered rainbow effect, but that seem tricky to get right. I was impressed by Ruth Reichl’s skills when she demonstrated the technique on a episode of Diary of a Foodie earlier this year.

But Can She Carve a Turkey With Those Paws

Oh my, this video encapsulates all of my loves: chubby Siamese cats, crazy ladies and well, food. When was the last time you saw a feline eating with chopsticks?

via Guanabee

Sometimes Apricots and a Banana Are Just Apricots and a Banana

Photo courtesy of my friend Sherri.

That's Amore

Breaking news: diners’ favorite dish at Macaroni Grill is pasta.

Also, Italy is the most popular fantasy vacation destination for Americans. I never would’ve guessed.

And this is my dream kitchen.

Would someone please explain America’s fascination with all things Tuscan? I feel like there is some obvious pop culture influence that I’m naively unaware of just like when I read that someone named Nate Berkus is the most trusted celebrity among US adults. Seriously, who the fuck is Nate Berkus? Oprah’s interior designer, it turns out. Does everyone know this?

Mario Batali came it at number three, so maybe there’s a bizarre connection between Italianism and trustworthiness that translates to kitchen design.

Blue's Clues

Maybe I’ve been watching too much too much HGTV because this weekend I decided to get into the open house game. Just what sort of stuff is selling in my neighborhood, anyway?

Apparently, scary stuff. I now know that $1.6 mil will get you a stuccoed townhouse with security cameras, next to a junk yard on a dead end warehouse-centric street that dead-ends at the Gowanus canal. There might also be a scary pit bull in the paved-over backyard, a one-armed realtor, carpeted floor-to-ceiling columns, Jacuzzi tub, metallic flower vase sculpted to look like two guns and lots of vitamins and protein powder on the counters of the most overwhelmingly glossy blue kitchen you could ever imagine.

I’ve lamented for years about the lack of color in American kitchens (and the abuse of travertine and granite). Even though you wouldn’t know if from my current mishmash apartment décor, I’m obsessed with everything green (despite having little interest in the Upper East Side or Italian food, I’m smitten with the color scheme at new restaurant, Alloro, and might have to pay a visit just to see the unbelievable greenness in person) and fantasize about the day I can apply the emerald hue in a serious way.

So, I have to admire the homeowners’ dedication to a single color (and I know the brand must’ve cost a pretty penny) but this abomination makes me question my own taste a bit. However, this blue kitchen renews my faith some.

And the pseudo-serious house hunt continues.

Who Knew Cake Was Seasonal?

Yes, I was confused by the “Nothing Says Summer Like Icing” headline in today’s dining section, but then the Times always makes declarative statements that mean nothing to me.

I guess cakes can be summer food if you want them to be, but the paper is going to have an awfully hard time convincing me that twentysomethings making $60,000 a year are struggling.

I do love a layer cake, though. And the more garish, the better.

A Pint of Mayo A Day Keeps the Doctor Away

I don’t celebrate Passover (or any religious holiday, really), have zero interest in Earth Day and have never understood the allure of outdoor dining in NYC (or anywhere, hence my fascination/revulsion with Gourmet's perpetual alfresco porn. April's issue contained an Italian maritime doozy, which I haven't had the wherewithal to analyze) so there’s like nothing food-related on the internet to properly distract me today. Boo.

However, I will admit I’m fascinated by the German man who eats 12,000 calories a day and can’t gain weight. A pint of mayonnaise a day?!

Not so much the financial analyst fast food stunt. Uh, this was already done in like 2005 when it was timely. Oh, and by this guy, too. But what would this city be without rich people thinking every idea they have is original, genius and worth exploiting for profit?

The Land of Lean Beef

The term beefcake (as opposed to cheesecake, I suppose) always seemed funny, unsexy and early ‘80s like Chippendale’s dancers and referring to asses as buns.

Beefscapes, on the other hand, are the most awesome food art since that guy started painting on tortillas (and they certainly beat Sandra Lee’s tablescapes). Canyons and valleys of meat? Maybe the Cattlemen’s Beef Promotion and Research Board's new ad campaign is working on me because I’m not a huge beef eater, yet I still find these carnivorous dioramas creepily mesmerizing.

Just get a load of that eye-popping Crumb-Crusted Top Sirloin and Roasted Garlic Potatoes with Bourbon Sauce.

via The Grinder

Most Wanted

That story of modern day slavery on Long Island was kind of a downer (as are most tales of indentured labor). But now that the perpetrators have been found guilty, I can focus on the strangest aspect of the case: the Indonesian women’s apparent affinity for doughnuts.

Both doughnut-related incidents are mentioned in consecutive paragraphs of today’s New York Times article:

“In the trial, a landscaper testified that one of the women had once approached him, indicated that she was hungry and uttered a single word: doughnut. He said he gave her some doughnuts and she ran back in the house.”

And it was a Dunkin’ Donuts employee who ultimately called the police:

“Finally, one of the women, Samirah, sought help by wandering into a Dunkin’ Donuts shop in Syosset one Sunday morning, slapping herself and uttering a word that sounded like ‘master.’”

They do have doughnuts in Indonesia, in case you were wondering. I was. Um, and they cover them in melted cheese and Oreos and give them names like the Alcapone.

J.Co Donuts photo from a touch of serenity

Wurst Ad Ever

It’s times like this where YouTube fails me. And I'm not savvy enough to make videos from DVRd television, so a still will have to suffice. A few weeks ago I started noticing a commercial for what appears to be a new international culinary program at the Art Institutes. Never mind that AI lacks the cache of CIA, the problem is that they use German cuisine to win over the viewer. Apparently, the students’ cooking is so authentic that they start to sprechen Deutsch. The secrets to bratwurst and kuchen revealed? Sign me up.

What I’m trying to figure out is if the Art Institutes are hopelessly out of touch with gastronomic trends or if they’re cutting edge. Based on the following tidbits from the past month, I declare the Art Institutes eerily prescient.

November 5th: Gridskipper maps out Berlin’s haute culinary haunts.

November 14th: the New York Post posited that a schnitzel revival is underway.

November 18th: The New York Times devoted nearly 3,000 words to neue Deutsche küche, a.k.a. new German cuisine.

November 21st: Eater predicts the lamb schnitzel at newcomer The Smith will be removed from the menu due to being “absurd.” A backlash already?

Someone has to put an end to the whole Spanish avant-garde thing, right?

Deceptively Delicious

Anything super sounds good, right? But as I’ve understood supertasters, it’s really kind of the opposite. More taste buds means more taste perception, which means heightened sensitivity to strong flavors. Because of this supertasters tend to be picky as children (which would correspond with the genetically picky kids  over environment theory) and don’t like bitter things or fatty flavors.

True, bitter is my least favorite flavor profile but I drink my coffee black, like dark chocolate and the brassica family and fatty meat rarely repels me. I didn’t always like what was on my plate as a child, but that wasn’t so much a case of being picky--I just wasn’t so crazy about the food I was served (sorry, mom). I don’t think loathing only two foods in the world—melon and malta—constitutes picky. Pickiness is infuriating. If anything I’m a subtaster, dull-budded, always wanting more.

That’s why I was curious about the supertaster test being offered through BlogSoop. Their theory is that food bloggers would tend to be supertasters and that’s why they’re into food. I didn’t suspect that was the case with me because I don’t fit the finicky, highly attuned profile; I just like to eat and type words that disappear into bloggy ether.

But if I’m to believe the results—you chew a piece of treated paper to see if you taste nothing, mild bitterness or extreme bitterness, and I had foul bile-ish bitterness in my mouth for an hour—I’m super, after all.

Maybe it’s a covert experiment about the power of suggestion. Like if people think supertasting is a good thing than they’ll want to taste the bitterness?  If you peruse the internet, it seems like anyone who has taken various tests (including this whack BBC one) has turned out to be a supertaster.

As American As Mock Apple Pie

I don’t think that I’ve spoken much about my job since starting it back in February. It’s definitely not a case of “if you have nothing nice to say…” but more of a “don’t I already bore the blogosphere enough as it is?” situation.

A good deal of my time is spent monitoring subjects like e-commerce, travel and IT as they relate to internet marketing. Consequently, I have RSS feeds up the yin yang (I really don’t know what that phrase means but I’ve always wanted to use it). For no particular reason keep my personal feeds on Bloglines and my work ones on Google and del.icio.us. The two paths should never cross. But every now and then while sorting through dull but relevant and dull yet useless stuff, I stumble upon something of moderate non-professional interest like “American Food Top Choice for People When Dining Out.”

Shocking, Americans prefer American food. Um, what is that anyway? I’m not the only one asking. Hot dogs, hamburgers, chili, buffalo wings…Chatham cod, Berkshire pork, Walla Walla onions, Maytag blue cheese?

I don’t analyze, I just research, but I’m sure that plenty of conclusions could be drawn from this data. For instance, those wretched Gen Xers only prefer American food over Mexican by one percentage point (25% vs. 24%). I can’t help but think it has something to do with a slacker/stoner affinity for nachos and burritos. Taco Bell seems quintessentially Gen X to me (and I can’t wait to see how “tacostadas” play out in Mexico) .

I have no explanation why Italian is tops with Echo Boomers (I can’t decide if that’s grosser than Millennials) but I’d love to blame Olive Garden.

Most of my favorites are Other, and I’m sure I’m not alone. 

I'd Rather Eat Molten Lava

No, I never talk Top Chef. I hardly talk TV at all, lest you think I watch hours and hours a night (I turn it on at 7pm and it doesn’t usually get turned off until 1am, I’m not really ashamed). But it’s the finale and all I cared was that the too-young-to-be-so-‘90s, poor man’s Jennifer Aniston didn’t walk away a winner.

But first, I couldn’t get past everyone calling foie gras “foie.” Gross, how hard is it to say the extra syllable?

Then, I nearly lost my shit when Hung (my favorite because he’s so unabashedly un-nice, yet proficient) went molten cake for his wild card. I hated how last episode it was all about who cooks with soul and how Hung isn’t in his food (like an Asian must fish sauce, tamarind and coconut it all up to get respect—which is exactly what he did to win). But after I saw those chocolate cakes coming out of the ring molds, I understood the true meaning of soullessness. So, so wrong, and so straightforward. I’m surprised he didn’t continue on the proving myself to be warm and cuddly through my heritage route by spiking the dessert with five-spice powder, ginger, pandan or something seemingly exotic.

No matter, it’s quite a feat for a chef to pull off a victory in spite of such a lame dessert. But seriously, chocolate molten cake?

Photo from Kraft, which tells you all you need to know about chocolate molten cakes.

New Joy

I’ve been known to torment friends with film. In college I was convinced that The Disorderly Orderly was pure genius (not to be confused with Disorderlies). Then I went through a Mrs. Doubtfire phase. Norbit even sucked me in earlier this year.

While watching perplexingly uneventful Old Joy on the (not so) big screen at Brooklyn Heights Cinema last November, I felt it wasn’t the right setting. Something was missing. The movie pushed James’s tolerance level more than any movie since Grizzly Man (which I didn’t find hard to watch). Er, because nothing happens, or rather nothing’s said, plenty happens in long real time shots, one might say. And many said just that; the film made countless 2006 top ten lists.

But it struck me recently that the ideal circumstances to view Old Joy would be with an Oregonian, someone you’ve been friends with for ages, and quite ideally while stoned. It would be the only way the movie would work. No one else could appreciate the overwhelming Northwestness of the dialogue and setting. Green and wet, moss on trees, oppressively gray sunless skies…slugs. Yes, slugs sum up all that is Oregon. I couldn’t believe my fortune when I was treated to a slug on a rock scene. The only thing missing was slow shots of mushrooms bulging from the earth.

I only have one friend in NYC that fit the criteria. Another would’ve sufficed, having spent some formative years in Portland, but she couldn’t attend. Jessica so rightly brought along a vegetarian burrito, as big as a baby’s torso, 85% beans and rice. I won’t touch those starchy hippy beasts, but it was completely appropriate.

I have no idea what their provenance is, and I’m fully aware that burritos as we know them aren’t terribly Mexican, but the burritos I love--compact, dense and meaty--come from neither Tex-Mex nor Mission-style storefronts in Portland. These reasonably sized cylinders contain no filler, no cheese, are a little greasy and stuffed with typical taco innards like carnitas or pastor. Basically refried beans and meat in a flour tortilla. I’ve not seen these in NYC.

Brooklyn burritos aren’t for me, so I easily identified ultimate snacks of my own. I went to pick up hummus to nam prik-ify, and was faced with a new Sabra variety: jalapeño. So pretty and green that I couldn’t leave it on the shelf. It’s sharper, tangier and herbier than the red chile mélange in former favorite Supremely Spicy. It looks like it would be milder, though it actually sticks with you.

I also picked up a half pound of Bleu d'Auvergne cheese, which I’m not sure qualifies as a soft blue (in my sense of the term). Despite its pliable nature, it’s really a creamy blue cheese, not a blue/triple cream hybrid.  At room temperature, the piquant cheese is spreadable not crumbly and almost fooled me into believing it was the style I was looking for. It certainly out-classed the Charles Shaw Cabernet Sauvignon I was drinking with it.

“Sorrow is faded worn out joy,” we learned. And most importantly, that watching Old Joy is much better with snacks, depressants and an accomplice. It’s worth waiting over a month for the Netflix shipment in order to glean quiet life lessons 2,900 miles from home

Machismo, Page and Screen

It’s the first day of fall and I’m using air conditioning. Just thought I’d briefly share my 90% humidity sadness. On to oh-so-serious matters...

I think I was recently complaining about food writing. I say, I think, because I’m not sure that I was all that concerned with writing but more the voices that accompany so much of it. On the one hand, weirdly confident married men with children who do stuff that they think is brilliant, on the other hand, an often female bounty-of-the-earth worshippers, paying homage to home cooking and the wisdom gleaned from humble but all-knowing grandmothers.

Macho food writing? I hadn’t really even considered it as an irritant because I wasn’t aware that it was a rampant genre. But British food writer Paul Levy has been stirring the pot with his Slate article that takes issue with the likes of Anthony Bourdain and Bill Buford, to name two.

I don’t have a problem with “coarse” descriptions, and the author comes across as a bit of a persnickety relic, but I don’t completely disagree with the tiresomeness of needing to be extreme. I’ve always thought it was strange that Bourdain has developed such a cult-like following by being opinionated, balls out (hate that phrase as much as the visual image) and culinarily open-minded.

I don’t begrudge his success; what I’ve been curious about is why there is no female equivalent. Why aren’t there any women doing the foul mouthed gourmand shtick (because they have better sense, some might argue)?

Judging from TV, you have to be sexualized (Giada, Nigella), accessibly girl next door (Rachael), or frumpy and unintimidating (Paula, Ina). Ok, that’s Food Network, what do you expect? But as contrast, they just picked up that bumbling yet personable smartass from drinking with locals, Three Sheets and gave him another travel show. That’s what men get to do on TV.

Women travel too, of course. I had the misfortune of catching part of Samantha Brown: Passport to Latin America in Belize. I don’t even know who this blah, late-in-life-mom type woman is (I can’t find an official bio anywhere but her fan wiki claims her favorite book is Atlas Shrugged. Strange, I was just reading about Ayn Rand and her influence on modern businessmen) but she made a huge fuss over cow tongue in a soup that was presented to her. She wouldn’t even try one bite, which was an instant turn off.

Sorry, now I’m meandering towards TV and away from writing, different and more physical. However, it would seem that there’s wide open opportunity for even vaguely interesting female food TV personalities. Or does the public enjoy what’s currently on offer?

More reactions to Paul Levy’s Slate article (my original focus):
The Grinder
Word of Mouth

My Babybel

I can’t tell whether Babybel is going for the bizarre foreign type humor intentionally or not. Every time the ad with the parachuters jumping out of a plane for the tiny wax covered cheese wedges comes on, I’m unable to tear my eyes from the horribly unfunny spectacle on screen.

Unfortunately, I can only find the UK version online, which is shorter and more restrained. The US one has the Rusty Griswold-looking kid making expressions a bit more manically and the song rocks out with more emphatic shouting at the end.

I don’t want to live in a world where Sally Field’s censored Emmy acceptance speech and a man on an elephant being attacked by a tiger are all over YouTube, yet American Babybel ads are nowhere to be found.

Reading is Fundamental

It’s easy to be critical, not so much when it comes to defining what’s “good.” At least for me. I thought I liked food writing until I tried thinking of who my favorite food writer might be and came up empty. As it turns out, I like to read and I like reading about food but not necessarily for the writing. I’m not literary minded. Maybe I’ve been ruined by the lawless potential of blogs.

With nonfiction I would want something funny, occasionally mean-spirited, highly personal, yet also informative. Sounds simple but I’m drawing a blank. Nothing overly intellectual or earnest. And I definitely don’t like reading about upper middle class+ and/or Ivy League educated men and their families. I think I’m probably supposed to read Julie and Julia (which I see has been retitled and packaged to look more chick lit) but I’ve always avoided it for no good reason. Book suggestions anyone?

Fiction-wise, well, I rarely read anymore, but I prefer mundane and/or melancholy, preferably about fuckups or outcasts. Raymond Carver and Sherwood Anderson are nothing alike but I enjoy short stories from both authors. I have Richard Lange’s Dead Boys and Junot Diaz’s (who plays food writer in this month’s Gourmet) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao on hold at the library (who knows when I’ll actually get them).

In the early ‘90s, The Sterns drew me in with kitsch and a tangible passion for their subjects, frequently food-related. I still read their longstanding Gourmet column and even wrote them fan letter when I was younger and less guarded.

The only book I could think of in recent history that was ostensibly about food while maintaining an entertainingly personal bent was Candy Freak. Not by a food writer. And apparently, a nut. Such strange timing that I would think of Steve Almond the same day Gawker mentions him (unflatteringly, of course). And then I remembered that he's now also a daddy blogger and I got grossed out again. 

Last night I cracked open The River Cottage Meat Book, my birthday present that showed up a month and half late because it was so massive that it had to be shipped surface from England (as a money-saver not because it HAD to be). It’s kind of cruel that I make my non-meat-eating sister send me such fleshy books as gifts. A few years back it was Nose to Tail Eating. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall definitely doesn’t fit my M.O., he’s very back to the land and posits that meat should cost twice as much for half the amount. I get his point, especially juxtaposed with slaughter photos of the livestock he’s raised (that seems so British right now, being all straightforward and graphic about animal husbandry). But it’s certainly not light reading.

Then this morning I received an email from Amazon suggesting that I preorder the Best Food Writing 2007. WTF? I haven't even looked at the list of authors yet. Am I being led to water and I just don’t want to drink? I will give it a read (via the public library again) and I’ll do so with a mind as open as I can possibly muster.

Photo from the South Carolina Library History Project

Rooting for the Home Team

Lest you think I’m the only kook who’s amused by Bonnie Root’s (inexplicably misguided friends/fans of Ms. Root need not leave comments about how I shouldn’t quit my day job. Believe me, I know) breed of under the radar fame, here’s snippet of an email I just received from a high school friend that I talk to a few times a year. It’s funny because I was just thinking of her yesterday (Lema, my friend, not Bonnie Root) because she’s the one who introduced me to Filipino food as a youngster and I have a potential trip to the Philippines stuck in my craw.

“I have been watching a series called ‘Cold Case’ on CBS.  There was this gal on the show and I kept thinking she looks really familiar.  Each time I watched it I kept missing the names of the actors. Well, I finally got to see the names, and the Assitant District Attorney on Cold Case is Bonnie Root.  Do you remember her?  She looks like she aged a few years. Granted she had what I thought weird skin.  It almost looked like her skin was not connected to her face.”

Yes, it reads like a mental patient sending fan mail to network a P.O. box. That’s why I like Lema, she always makes me guffaw with semi-intentionally funny observations like skin not looking like it was connected to a face. (She earnestly tells a hilarious story about a guy picking up a hooker in The Philippines who’s awakened by a hand job courtesy of a worm coming out of the prostitute’s ass. Who hasn’t fantasized about a worm job?)

Clearly, Lema doesn’t read blogs--of course I remember that gal.

Make it a True Daily Double

(Paraphrasing because I was only half-watching) “Which section of the New York Times allows critic Frank Bruni a $350,000 annual budget for expenses?” (And my own question, who's flying him first class to Moscow?)

No one on this evening’s Jeopardy knew the answer (ok, Tim Abou-Sayed from Florida did eventually come up with “what is restaurants” as a sheer guess, right at the buzzer and after a miss from the ultimate winner Monica Lenhard of Michigan answered, “theater”).

Not that Jeopardy contestants are representative of the nation at large (more informed yet more socially retarded) but it relieved me that clearly no one outside of New York reads the New York Times dining section. I like to be reminded that NYC is not the center of the world, even though I admit to feeling anxious and out of touch with local media when I’m out of town (which is why I was reading “Off the Menu” on vacation in ’05 and learned about Fatty Crab. This was pre-food blog glut by the way, when I relied on print for restaurant openings. I swear I’m not obsessed with hating/loving Fatty Crab—I think I just like typing the word fatty).

Sometimes I wish I didn’t know things, the kinds of things in the New York Approval Matrix. I don’t want to know who The Splasher and Boerum Hill Crapper are (ok, maybe the crapper is alright), yet I do. Why? The person I live with has no knowledge of any of this non-importance (though it’s not as bad as the sixth grade dropout boyfriend raised in an orphanage who had never watched TV in his entire life. Honest to god, he had no clue who Tom Cruise was and that’s a hard one to avoid). Easily 85% of the people I come into contact daily for business and pleasure are not familiar with useless New York-ish pop culture talking points. Should I stop reading self-referential blogs for sanity’s sake? It’s not like I impress anyone with witty, informed banter. In fact, I often go all day without uttering more than a sentence or two, which likely contributes to my urge for spewing nonsense here.

Last night I saw an ad for a job I’d be perfect for. Not a cool job, library work, but definitely not hip as all (northern) Brooklyn librarians apparently now are. It involved food marketing. But it was in Virginia. I’ve seen Chicago ads and seriously think, but Virginia? Uh uh (it doesn’t help that James’s parents live in that state and would kill for him to live closer to home). It’s really out of the country or not at all.

Saturday I was informed that Manila might be in a business trip future. I’d love to go to the Philippines and have been interested in the country (well, the food) since I was a teenager. Shanghai was also tossed out as a possibility for the fall, maybe both. Could I stop reading the New York Times and placeblogs, whatever the fuck those are, for at least a few weeks?

Last month everyone (in the blogosphere, duh--my god, it’s worse than I thought) was doing the let’s live on food stamp allotments challenge (I had food stamps in college and ate quite well--$112/month for a Northwestern 19-year-old in ’91 was a lot of extra money. That doesn’t seem right considering that same state’s average allotment appears to be less sixteen years later). Boring. Maybe I’ll do the same with regional periodicals and blogs. You know, doing without, living like the poors. But then, I’d miss the rare, cool non-NYC-centric chain restaurant article like this one appearing in tomorrow’s print edition.

It’s not like I’m moving (back) to Oregon anytime soon. Wild west or not, the rugged individualist state probably isn’t all that welcoming of outlaw chefs. Jason Neroni will only luck out because no Oregonian has any inkling or interest about what goes on in NYC. God bless them.

Move Over Fisticuffs

I don’t usually concern myself with local news in my own neighborhood, let alone Staten Island, but I’m loving this story about a melee over fireworks. They had me at young woman with Down syndrome attacking a cop but what really clinched me was the use of donnybrook. I’m still sporadically following my 2007 resolution to look up words that I’m not 100% sure of. Donnybrook has never crossed my path in 34 years. What a word! Who needs fisticuffs when you’ve got donnybrook?

(Dilla)hunting & Stalking

This isn’t supposed to be a full on food blog, so please allow a momentary distraction. Before I get to my point, let me just say that the Lifetime Movie Network shows some amazing stuff. And you thought plain Lifetime was good enough. Friday night I got sucked into Eat Your Heart Out, a late ‘90s treat about a floppy haired guy who becomes a celebrity chef with a romance call in show, lets it go to his head and hooks up with his agent Laura San Giacomo when his heart really belongs to that whiny/raspy voice woman who played the wife on Lucky Louie (whose friend is played by pre-gastric bypass Jackie Guerra)

I was going to call it quits but then the next movie, crazylove, starred Michelle Dessler. She was a spunky grade school teacher with a live-in boyfriend who wouldn’t marry her, then her new exciting after school math program got overshadowed by her younger sister announcing her engagement to a guy she’d only known three months and who proposed to her by putting a ring in a piece of cake (unfortunately, this was verbally conveyed—no cinematic evidence). So, Reiko Aylesworth went crazy at the engagement party she threw because the martini olives weren’t right and ran out to the grocery store and had a “nervous breakdown” i.e. threw jars of olives at people, which caused her to be committed in a psychiatric hospital where she fell in love with a schizophrenic and after they both got released they lived out their fantasy of humping and eating SpaghettiOs in bed.

So, two Sundays ago I was watching that scene in John From Cincinnati where the bad actor surfer kid (I’ve never been one to agree with the NY Times TV critic but declaring, “Only Shaun, who rarely speaks, has real charisma” was particularly egregious) had broken his neck and a doctor was consulting with the family. James says, “I think that’s Henry Thomas.” Granted, James was right and I was wrong when he said the same thing about 11:14 but that was a fluke. I countered, “Uh, no, I think I’d recognize Henry Thomas if I saw him. And don’t you think a new HBO series would be a bit high profile for the Hankster?” Last I read he’d been in films no one’s heard of directed by Michael Landon Jr. and acting with the likes of Karen Black, Anne Heche and Alan Cumming.

No, that was no Henry Thomas and I paid the doctor character no mind until the latest episode when he shows up unannounced at the Yost’s house and mentions that he often smokes a cigarette or two a day and got all tongue-tied and damp-eyed dwelling on the mystical, extraterrestrial, miraculous, whatever the hell is going on in this show.

I suddenly decided that he’s disarming in an open minded yet professional manner. I think he does or would wear Dockers but if you suggested something a little more stylish he wouldn’t be opposed. I like that. Someone on the HBO boards says that he's "SO HOTTTT!!!!!" while another claims he looks like a gnome. Who ever said the two needed to be mutually exclusive?

But obviously this is a character, not the man himself, Garret Dillahunt. I know next to nothing about the real person, but c’mon the name alone is enough. It’s dapper and dirty at the same time. I’ve so not dabbled in stargazy stalkerish behavior as of late (I had a passing interest in Christopher Gorham but only as Henry on Ugly Betty, not so much as Jake 2.0). I just decided that I like this guy (or that guy—why did I forget about this site? Late‘90s wonders get so quickly surpassed).

He still has a Deadwood drawl, which was how I finally deduced where I knew him from (oh, and the instantly cancelled Book of Daniel that I never watched but from the commercials thought it was Peter Krause playing Jesus). I never understood why folks in South Dakota would necessarily speak twangily (or Shakespearean, for that matter) but the Dillahunt is a west coaster (raised in Washington) so I’m even more confused. A little confusion keeps things fresh, though.

I was going to say that Dr. Smith is older than my usual type, but then again I’m older than the last time I ogled a lesser-known actor. I forget that 42 is merely an eight-year age gap. I had a non-imaginary relationship with someone older than that a full decade ago. So watch out Garret—I’ve got (fine lines forming around) my eye on you.

One Man's Toothsome is Another's Melts in Your Mouth

We all have our pet peeves. I’m cliché crazy so I should tread lightly here. I use tasty to describe food and that’s probably a nuisance to some (though I wouldn’t necessarily use the term in something professional, whatever that means anymore). I would never say yummy (or god forbid, yummo) but it doesn’t rankle me. I really don’t care for the word succulent and once an editor inserted that into an opening paragraph I’d written and it skeeved me out.

My least favorite food description has to be melts in your mouth followed by to die for with sinful as a close runner up. I guess chocolate really does melt in your mouth, hence the M&M’s melts in your mouth, not in your hands tagline, but you see it used all the time to describe meat and fish and that’s not really accurate or appetizing. You usually see melts in your mouth in online forums or casual venues, it’s to be expected, but last week it was in a Time Out NY review. No, not the New York Times, but they do have standards (and a style guide).

Out of curiosity, I turned to Chowhound for a sense of this phrase’s ubiquitousness. I’m not picking on Chowhound, they just proved to be a good resource because they’re one of the longest running food boards and I thought I’d get a good sampling. I was expecting a couple hundred hits. But no, there were 3,296. Seriously. And the second hit contains an amazing double whammy right in the title. “Melt in your mouth, to die for sushi?” Bonanza.

Not completely related, and it’s a Britisism/Aussieism, but only in the past few months have I become acquainted with the phrase to the boil as in “let it come to the boil” as opposed to to a boil. Petty, I know, it’s a standing in/on line thing. My ears just can’t get accustomed to standing on a line no matter how long I live here.

I'm sure there are countless other petty offensenes. I've heard of toothsome haters and it doesn't pain me in the least to use the adjective.

One Show at a Time

You know how Mork would occasionally (ok, maybe it was once) show up on Happy Days for no good reason? And I’m pretty sure Laverne & Shirley crossed over too despite the shows being set in different decades. It was misguided and wrong, characters need to stay in their own settings. I recently experienced the foodie equivalent.

Eh, I guess there wasn’t any time travel/messing with eras in this circumstance. Maybe it was more like when you were a kid and you’d see your teacher at the grocery store. That was always unsettling. It was getting late, a little past midnight on a Sunday and I was trying to prepare for a new Monday earlier rise. We were watching a recording of One Plate at a Time and Rick Bayless was in the Yucatan talking about his friend Jacques and how he has a condo in Playa del Carmen and great things happen when Jacques around, and I was like who is this Jacques douche. And then Rick answered my question, "Jacques is, well he’s your other favorite public television chef, Jacques Pepin."

WTF?! I seriously thought I was hallucinating. I'm not sure if it was because I was tired, but this was seriously the most laugh out loud funny thing I'd seen on TV in a long time. Jacques is supposed to be in Connecticut cooking fast food his way, not wearing a tunic and a dude necklace and eating nopales. The cross-breeding was just bizarre. I almost expected Ming Tsai, who’s also fond of the dude necklace, to show up call everyone “guys” and work some east meets west magic with black beans and fermented black beans. Ok, now I’m totally being a public television food geek.

I've never associated Bayless with Pepin, though a commonality is that they both have/had shows and books where they cook with their red-headed daughters—no one seems to remember Cooking with Claudine from the mid-‘90s. Somehow both One Plate at a Time and Fast Food My Way have developed into our favorite DVRd food picks, though. I’d never thought about Pepin one way or the other, but James is hooked on his show and I’ve been getting sucked in. I was never crazy about Rick Bayless either, we kind of started watching him as a joke because he's so stonerish, but his grown up hippy style has grown on us and now I’m gung ho on going to Mexico.

Hope Things Turn Around for U Soon

A Tuesday New York Post with some Braunstein nonsense on the cover has been sitting on my coffee table for a few days but it wasn’t until this afternoon that I actually scrutinized it. Despite being home sick, I was filled with vim and vigor after eyeballing the photo of his victim’s mirror that he had scrawled on before leaving.

“BYE - HOPE THINGS TURN AROUND FOR U SOON” written on a mirror (the same cheapo mirror/medicine cabinet that I have and also had at my previous dwelling. I think 90% of NYC apartments have that tri-paneled, ugly thing with white trim) after chloroforming and performing unseemly acts for 13 hours is like the funniest, flippest thing I’ve ever seen. So upbeat, and a great sentiment for many situations, big and small.

The caring message could apply to high profile crap like the mean daddy Baldwin call or the Virginia Tech rampage or it could be used to smooth over asinine NYC-centric problems.  “Sorry you were outbid on a condo—bye, hope things turn around for u soon,” sorry you’re 41 and can’t conceive, sorry you can’t get a table at Waverly Inn. Or better yet, sorry your mom died because the crowds at Waverly Inn blocked her ambulance. Braunstein’s the new Hallmark.

It's Rampant

I’ve had no time to think lately. While I get my concentration back, here are a few new (to me) items that have caught my fancy.

Not ramps. I’ve never bought ramps, though I’ve possibly eaten them twice. They’re just an onion-like vegetable, I don’t need to hear about them endlessly. Maybe it’s because I only recently got hip to RSS feeds but like every other post popping up in my reader is ramp related. Ramps. Ramps. Ramps. Ramps. Ramps.

I’m pretty sure that Flying Goose chile sauce isn’t brand new but I’d never noticed the pastel tipped bottles until a few weekends ago at Pacific Supermarket in Elmhurst. From a distance it just looked like regular Huy Fong, a.k.a. rooster sauce but this is a different brand with amped up flavors like lemongrass, extra garlic and galangal. Very cool.

I also discovered Chimes during this same Chinese grocery shopping excursion. I usually do a sweep through the snack aisle for wasabi peas, shrimp chips and Japanese mixed rice crackers but I don’t always scrutinize the sweets. Maybe Chimes have always been there. I was struck the subtly old-fashioned packaging rather than the cartoony, bright hued bags I’m used to. It looks like they’re Indonesian and that the design was well-considered. These individually wrapped ginger chews come in plain, mint or peanut. I’m not fanatical about ginger’s strong bite, but with peanut? Genius.

I like to take notes and it’s not always easy finding a small inoffensive pad. I haven’t seen these Serrote notebooks in person yet but they seem right on and feed my woodgrain fetish. Yes, I know they’re pricier than a Mead spiral but in the scheme of things paying a few extra bucks for paper is pretty harmless. Urgh, they’re backordered here in Brooklyn.

Even though it’s a little too big for everyday lugging and I can’t wear it over my shoulder, which is important for ear to iPod reach now that it’s warm enough to not have coat pockets, I like my new Target bag that I bought in the Bronx last week. But I’m being driven insane because it’s nowhere to be found on their website. I think they have a horrible search. Wicker only brought up baskets. I went to Handbags & Accessories and tried browsing by color: brown, with no luck. I tried browsing styles: casual totes, oversized totes, and then canvas. It should be in the Rafé section because it’s a Rafé bag, but it’s not there either. The only photo I could find was from last week’s Time Out NY. It’s #6, $148 cheaper than the next cheapest bag in their spread.

I know next to nothing about Mexican slang and I’m not much of a streetwear gal but I do find this B is for Beaner shirt highly entertaining, mostly because I’d nearly forgotten about the existence of the word beaner. I’ve never heard it in NYC. Actually, I don’t think I’ve heard it since the ‘80s. I also don’t think I was ever called a beaner because I didn’t look like one but my best friend in fourth grade did call me “burrito butt” after I called her “rug head.” There’s nothing like the insults of nine-year-olds.

Is There an M&M Inside of You?

In the junk email realm, PBTeen, Ann Taylor LOFT, Macy’s, Newport News and Spiegel all implored me to shop their Presidents’ Day sales. There does seem to be considerable leeway on the proper name of today’s holiday, but I’m convinced that it’s Presidents Day, plain and simple, no apostrophe before or after the s. Wikipedia backs me up on this, though they’re not the most definitive source in the world (and they include an apostrophe in the URL). George Washington and Abraham Lincoln do not own Feb. 19, there’s no possession. It’s just a day for presidents.

Phew, I had to get rankled about something today. I’ve been trying to come to terms with old songs, indie songs, whatever being used willy-nilly in ads. A friend mentioned that she’s more upset by old song misappropriation, loathing M&M’s recent use of The The’s “This is the Day.” I’m more offended by the notion that we all have an M&M inside of us. I most definitely do not.

But I finally found an example of repurposing a lightly obscure song from the past in a genius way. Juxtaposing The Buzzcocks’s "Everybody's Happy Nowadays" with fogey-ish AARP was a brilliant move. Instead of focusing on aging they’ve put the spotlight on birthdays and make getting older seem downright fun.

Cat Fat Fever

Ok, I love cat crap but I’m no pet blogger. Yet I couldn’t help but be sucked in by a news teaser last night about a stray fat cat who was found stuck in a doggie door. He looked enormous and crazy so I had to learn more. Goliath, as he’d been dubbed, clearly hadn’t been doing without during his six months on the street. His original owner, who lost the cat while in the hospital for a lung transplant, (don't miss the heartwarming tidbit about how the feline would lie on his stomach and play with his oxygen tubes) was reunited after seeing Hercules (his real name) on TV. 

The best part of the whole saga, which I later discovered, was where the cat lived: Gresham, Oregon (my hometown). I should’ve known. I’m not sure if this is a tale of NW kindness to the homeless (I’ve always been amazed at the number of panhandlers in Portland vs. NYC and the tolerance level. There’s not a lot of sympathy here—maybe that’s why they all flock to Oregon) or about Gresham generating fatness.

I was baffled that Hercules only weighed twenty pounds. James keeps insisting that my ever-growing feline must weigh twenty pounds and I refuse to believe him. I don’t know what to do with her. We leave the same food out for all of our cats, yet James’s two remain average sized. Why can’t Sukey control her portions?

I really fear that there must be a correlation between owners and pets weights. And the last thing I need is another diabetic cat. James is always trying to capture Sukey in unflattering poses so he can take photos, which while amusing, is mildly cruel. She looks ok when she’s sitting up but when she’s lying on her side she looks like a tubcat in training. At least chubby cats don’t seem to have poor self-esteem.

I bought a scale last week because I’m trying to be more diligent, and last night we got Sukey’s measurements: 21 pounds. What the hell? She was only 7 pounds when I got her (granted, she was still kitten-ish and malnourished). I can’t fathom that she’s bigger than Hercules. This somehow reflects on me. It’s a good thing I’m not a human parent or else my kids would get sent home with bad BMI report cards.

spring 2004

winter 2006

By the way, if you thought I was exaggerating about James’s mom always sending him home with atrocities from Marshalls, just witness these beauties that showed up post-Christmas. Meow.

Civic Lesson

I swear I don’t love beating dead horses (even though I’m mildly equine averse) but just a few minutes ago I heard Go! Team blaring from the living room TV while in my bedroom. Lordy, what could they possibly be selling? I guessed car, it’s often autos. It was Honda Civic. Frankly, I’m surprised their bouncy, upbeat sound hadn’t been used in a commercial yet (ah…apparently, Nike and McDonald’s attempted it). I’m totally beyond the whole indie sellout label. Who cares as long as curtails ‘80s worship.

I expect that sort of thing from a car ad, but sports elude me. Sunday afternoon I was trying to tune out some NFL pre-game show but I couldn’t ignore the background music during a montage. You know how you know a song but out of context you don’t always identify it immediately. They were using Voxtrot’s “Missing Pieces.” Yeah, I guess they’re popular. I can’t gauge what’s mainstream anymore, though from flipping through radio stations in the car I can definitely say Voxtrot is not playing in NYC. I hate to admit that even the National Football League knows better than to blast Nu Shooz.

$38.10 Worth of Thanks

Being the last Wednesday before Thanksgiving where you can do actually something about what you’re being told by food sections, it’s been a turkey barrage. I’m not turkey crazy in the least but I’m starting to feel the bland, meaty tug, especially since last year I went out for dinner and ended up missing picking at leftovers over the three-day weekend.

At work we were trying to find historic turkey prices and I was moderately surprised by the statistics coming from the American Farm Bureau. They’ve pegged the cost of this year’s Thanksgiving dinner for ten at $38.10. That is totally doable if you have simple tastes but otherwise it’s kind of a sad meal. They’ve broken it down by individual items so you can see how they’ve arrived at the figure. I’m thrifty as hell and yes, New Yorkers tend to be out of touch spending-wise (I don’t need to re-remind you about New York magazine’s cheap $500 holiday party for eight do I? Ok, I do.) but come on, a 59-cent relish tray of carrots and celery?  That’s dietetic and depressing.

$1.86 for a 30-oz. pumpkin pie mix and $1.89 for two pie shells…eh. While there’s no way in hell I’m coughing up $28, you can still make a quality dessert from scratch for under $5, ten dollars if you live it up. And no, most people including myself, don’t use fresh pumpkins for pies but a home made crust likely uses ingredients already in your house: flour, eggs, shortening, butter, salt, sugar, water or some variation of these. Extras like nuts or whipped cream add to the price, but only marginally. Even if you’re tempted to buy a ReadyCrust (I used to totally covet the chocolate crusts in the store when I was a kid. I could so imagine a green misty grasshopper pie in the preformed shell) read what the New York Times has to say about crust perfection.

So this year I plan on cooking some basics but probably not until Saturday and likely only for myself (Thanksgiving proper I’ll be working so no prep time and that evening I’ll have a few holiday orphans over for a turkey-free slumber party). I envision a small poultry item, stuffing of some sort, a green vegetable and possibly a potato-based dish and that’s it. I might even forgo dessert because there’s already enough sugariness in the house. But I suspect I’ll still overspend the $38.10 average.

I was just looking at heritage turkeys you can order through Fairway and even a small one, at $5.99/lb is around $70. People have been heritage gaga for the past few years. I’d like to give in to history and wild birds but this isn’t the year for financial risk. Maybe I’ll get my taste of Bourbon Red or Standard Bronze in 2007. It’ll be an antibiotic-free free-range vegetarian fed turkey for around $25 and I’m guessing I can put the whole meal together for less than the price of one heritage turkey, tasty as it may be. I’ll add it up next week and see.

Nothing Krafty About It

Maybe I misunderstood this Wall Street Journal article on how today’s People contained scratch and sniff Kraft ads. As a lover of the fine publication, Kraft Food & Family, this seemed like a dream come true. I thought they meant that Kraft was sponsoring this week’s magazine so I couldn’t wait to flip through it at work this evening (I don’t need to subscribe to gossip rags—they’re practically the only periodicals we get at the Post) but it was just a plain ol’ People with a Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe cover that simply smelled liked glossy paper not an aromatic holiday edition.

I did get excited when I saw a Campbell’s ad with a recipe for green bean casserole. I know, not Kraft but a whiff of cream of mushroom soup and French’s French Fried Onions would’ve been welcome and I don’t even like soupy casseroles (I’ve been trying to detox after overindulging in alcohol and battered fried treats this weekend and eating carelessly in general the past few weeks. I so couldn’t handle the CR lifestyle. As of 8pm I’ve eaten blanched cabbage, green beans and carrots with a little peanut sauce, ¼ cup of spiced pumpkin seeds and a small box of golden raisins and I’m so starving that I’m practically hallucinating. And the peanuts and pepitas probably contain too much fat. The only thing keeping me on the wagon is that I’m working solo until midnight and can’t sneak out for a snack. I do have an emergency orange in my purse because I knew I would have a freak out).

But smelling synthetic food scents is safe, so where are my Krafty advertorials?

$70 of Joy

When is a magazine worth $70? It doesn’t fight “stubborn belly fat,” so how to justify the expense? The cover price works out to a mere $2.30 or so but the $54 shipping from Malaysia kills me. I love Flavours more than almost any food magazine I’ve found, despite the fact that I’ve never cooked single thing from it. My subscription just ran out and I’m going to have to bite the bullet.

The writing is ok, the thing is rife with advertising/pr blurring usually reserved for small town dailies, they only recently started noting which restaurant reviews were anonymous (and vice versa), but the magazine taps into a twisty culture that I’m fascinated by. When people think Malaysia, they think quintessential street food and they’d be right. In fact, there was just a travel piece in the New York Times on the topic. I had some of the best dishes ever on my visit last year. The region’s residents are food crazy, and rightly so. Eating and obsessing on where to eat is a perfectly acceptable hobby. Makansutra had this niche pre-blog era. It’s no coincidence that many of the original food bloggers were based out of Singapore and Malaysia (I recall reading a few years back when Friendster was the big thing that after the U.S., Malaysia had the highest number of members) and they continue in their proliferation. Singaporean Chubby Hubby seems to currently have the corner on the slick, anything but amateur market.

But there’s not a lot of high-low mingling, it’s either hawker or haute. Western food frequently fills the gap in the middle. Malaysians might take offense at this, but as with many nationalities, their tastes tend to be provincial. They like what they know and are incredibly particular about minutiae like subtle differences in broth at various stalls. Yet they’re not so critical with foreign flavors. I was initially baffled how Thai food could be better in NYC than 100 miles from the Thai border. Most of what I saw tended to revolve around noodles or was something not terribly Thai dubbed tom yum (though I have to admit that tom yum pizza sounds like an awesome invention) in the way we’d stick pineapple on something and call it Hawaiian.

Flavours definitely dallies in the higher end but it is tradition-bound too. The tone is aspirational, occasionally fawning and sometimes misguided. I love the hodgepodge. Picking the January/February 2006 issue off the shelf randomly, the first ad for Maggi celebrates Chinese New Year with the tagline, “customs may change but good taste is forever,” which sums everything up. Honestly, I don’t even know what the original customs are—maybe that’s why I can enjoy how they jumble them all up.

Content from this issue includes "The New Oriental Splendour" and pictures pretty amuse bouches of prunes & bacon with pan-fried potato and cherry tomato with Chinese bbq meat; "New Year with the Nonyas," which features old school dishes like hati babi bungkus (pork liver balls);  "Old-fashioned Favourites," profiling nostalgic snacks from yesteryear like fah sang koh and ham chit soo that are completely bewildering to me; a column from a French chef who teaches at the French Culinary School in Asia on how to cook lamb, the premise being that “Malaysians do not know what to do with lamb.” The roasted lamb rack with tapenade & black olive mashed potato looks pretty good.

Then there’s an insane feature on truffles (Perigord black truffles were quoted at RM3,000 to RM4,000 per kg. Hmm, that’s $400-500 a pound, probably about right) with a recipe for truffle puffs, essentially typical curry puffs stuffed with foie gras and truffles. It’s probably tasty, despite its ostentatious premise. Not so palatable is a cocktail they’ve devised called an azur, which is a glass of Chardonnay drizzled with blue Curaçao.

They review a place called Fondue House and are sure to point out that recipes have been tweaked for local palates, many have low alcohol content or none at all, and the bacon cheese fondue uses beef bacon. Sometimes you forget when reading flashier publications that the country is predominantly Muslim. I recall being surprised that our room service breakfast at a perfectly modern hotel had a choice of beef bacon, turkey ham or chicken sausage. No pork to be found.

I’m enamored with how the mixed culture—Malay, Chinese, Indian, British, Portuguese—all put a mark on local cuisine and how this natural fusion informs how dining is interpreted. It’s a weird scene. Last year, in Kuala Lumpur, we went to Frangipani, a swanky creative restaurant, and were two of only eight diners in the vast space, all Caucasian.

  The concept hasn’t been fully embraced yet, and for good reason—it’s really freaking expensive. Our bill was around $150, more on par with a New York restaurant. Meanwhile, a bowl of laska at sit-down Madame Kwan’s goes for around $3.50, and locals complain (you can get it on the street for under one dollar). It’s like these Chinese monster malls filled with luxury goods but necessarily enough clientele. The transition is too fast and unattainable for the mainstream. (Coincidentally, there was just a related discussion on egullet about the lack of high end dining threads.)

I know it’s strange that I don’t enjoy this type of coverage when it’s home grown. Maybe that’s because New York is oversaturated with gloss. Or maybe it’s because Flavours’s style is highly un-American. When they mix Western flourishes in, which they often do, it’s European or Australian. Nods to the U.S. are nearly non-existent (they murder Mexican food—cajun spices, gouda and baked potato with your burrito?) Sometimes it’s fun being an outsider, totally unjaded and learning everything from scratch.

It All Depends On How You Define Influential

Personally (and hey, this is Project Me) it would’ve made more sense if I’d written the best Latin American food piece in today’s NY Post but for reasons unknown to me I was assigned the Top 25 Influential Latinos. Whatev, a clip is a clip, a check is a check. I should say no more.

As I said somewhere before, it’s too bad they didn’t include Hurley from Lost or the only actress larger than a size 4 on Grey’s Anatomy (I don’t even watch that show but I do find it interesting that ABC has back-to-back less-than-svelte Latinas on screen. Of course, the bigger issue might be Ugly Betty’s Justin, the gayest child character since Danny Pintauro on Who’s the Boss) Dr. Callie Torres. Only fat Mexicans allowed, thank you.

HisSpace

Over the years I’ve Googled my fair share of well and lesser knowns but it rarely occurs to me to hit up the MySpaces, Friendsters and Facebooks of the web. But their reach is undeniable and hardly just for youngsters anymore (my grandma’s probably got a profile. She used to go by the online handle tarbaby2000, I shit you not) so I shouldn’t have been surprised when a sharp reader (I just like saying that like I have an audience of hundreds of thousands) pointed me to a Henry Thomas MySpace page and questioned its veracity.

Of course it was my HT. Who else would put effort into posting decade old (there should be a hypen beteween decade and old but my borrowed/used laptop is busted and a bunch of keys won't work. I would've posted this yesterday but the n, m, v, b and . keys were stuck) music they wrote (um, it’s nothing like uploading ten year old zines or anything)? He’s making me love/hate him again because that furry hat is just asking for trouble (at least it’s not a guy necklace) but then he’s advocating the use of library cards and extolling the virtues of Mexican popsicles (click on the blogs links). How do I reconcile the two?

The Tom Waits lover (inexplicable it girl Scarlett Johansson has beaten him to a record deal despite the fact that she’s not a musician) with a penchant for zany haberdashery or limon ice cream eater who would actually swim in a city park (maybe L.A. is different beast than Brooklyn)? I’m so torn. This is why E list child stars should not be allowed on the internets.

Is it Possible to Deep-fry Reese's Pieces?

I was just thinking how ideal it would be having Fridays off and not starting work until 4:30pm on Mondays, if I had someplace to go away to for the weekend. But seeing as I don’t, Fridays are now frivolous project day (Mondays are rapidly becoming sleeping in so late day that nothing productive occurs before leaving the house). I’ve scanned and uploaded the second installment of The Scaredy-cat Stalker (look here if you have no idea what I’m talking about). I almost forgot that E.T. was a Halloween movie and that I ran into H.T., himself, the day after Halloween eight whole years ago, so it’s only fitting to drop a little mildly warranted Henry Thomas joy on you today. I have five more issues to go, which will put me into early December. Ideally, I would be working Fridays (not because I like working Fridays but an extra eight hours of income wouldn’t hurt) by December but there’s no telling what’ll transpire in a month.

And since I’m reveling in the personal, allow me to extend an invite to an upcoming party I’m throwing. I’m not sure that I have that (m)any NYC readers but if anyone feels the urge for deep-fried candy (I wasn’t going to get too crazy making food food, but inevitably the bug bit and now it looks like there’ll also be shrimp satay, gado gado, parmesan-stuffed bacon-wrapped dates, Indonesian corn fritters, Malaysian style chicken wings, some chickpea and pepita mixed snacks and jalapeño margaritas) after 9pm on November 11th, you’re welcome to stop by. Seriously. I have no qualms about posting my address on the internet since I imagine that most New Yorkers are too busy or self-absorbed to waste time stalking strangers or sending snail mail (how very ‘90s of me) death threats. RSVPs are encouraged but it’s not as if I envision 500 random folks showing up at my front door like supposedly happens when people post parties on MySpace. 1 4th Place, #1, Brooklyn, NY.

Ok, I’m supposed to be writing paragraphs/blurbs on the top 25 influential Latinos (um, and I only know who like five of the people on the list are—does that make me uninformed? This is hardly as bad as one of my many new-in-NYC humiliating interview experiences, funnily enough at Interview, where I was given a “pop culture quiz” which consisted of a list of maybe 25 names. I had to write in which each person was famous for and I was clueless on about 75% of them. The only three I can now recall are Sofia Coppola [who was famous for nothing in 1998 other than her mis-casting in Godfather III] Douglas Coupland and Faith Popcorn. I did not get the photo assistant job.) due by Friday and I haven’t even started. It might be quiet around here for the next few days.

2005 NYC Halloween parade Elliotts from Turi Travels

The Food Chain

There is almost nothing quite so awesome as scary beings eating themselves. This anthropomorphic ice cream eating ice cream, cartoon cow devouring slices of its own hindquarters concept is my new favorite Flickr pick me up.

Ah…Autophagia and Cut Me, Wicket Servant also tread into this tasty yet terrifying realm.

Chicken cannibal photo from bunchofpants on Flickr.

Kill Your (American) Idols

Strange that two NYC newspapers would both print articles about women and whiskey drinking within two days of each other: Strong Drink is Not for Men Alone and Whiskey Chicks (guess which one belongs to the NY Times). I suppose two writers could’ve had the same idea at the same time (one is more of a first person account, the other a newsier reported piece) but this is the kind of thing that makes me wonder about press releases, insider events and the like. Who knows, there was probably some recent bourbon tasting with brands geared towards ladies like that horrible (in concept—I’ve never actually tasted it) White Lie wine (whose website seems to no longer exist), or a study released about an increase in female whiskey drinking (I thought there was an upsurge in the Atkins era because hard liquor contains less carbs than girlie cocktails, duh). Anyway, I’m a whiskey drinker, myself, so I didn’t mind seeing two articles.

The world has gone weird. Today I interviewed at Fox News (yes, they have a library) and next week I interview a former American Idol contestent for an article I’ve been assigned. I’m so not about Fox News or American Idol. Sometimes I don’t know how these things happen to me.

Building Bridges

Maybe it's age and the supposed wisdom that comes with it but I haven't felt like talking about myself much lately. That likely a blessing because I'd only bore you to tears. But this whole mess did originate as an online journal, not a happy go lucky blog, so indulge me for a post.

Recently I've been waking up feeling simultaneously blech and panic-stricken. It's probably normal to have bouts of self-doubt where you feel ineffectual and hopeless (though I bet these corporate goths never question themselves). The problem is that when you're busy and bogged down with a soul-crushing job you hate there's little time for dwelling. Now that I'm only working sporadically part time (just three days this week, probably more next week) I have the free time to do anything I'd like (I mean, creatively, not shopping, traveling or dining decadently, duh) but there's not an ounce of inventiveness in me. I'm as leaden and dull as a human can get and that's really annoying. I don't want to be the kind of person who needs a steady job to feel ok and secure. I've only been freelancing for a little over a week and I'm becoming all too keenly aware of my ingrained lack of self-motivation and direction. I'm so not a go-getter, I'm barely a get-out-of-bedder.

Free time is like that, though. If I remember correctly, I was unemployed in most of 2000 and 2003 and I didn't do shit. I have nothing to show for it except huge credit card debt (I think I'm trying to scare myself into action. Even though I know my short-term income will be spotty I went nuts on Sunday and paid off one of my credit cards [I have three] with the smallest balance, which was around $2,500. I might be hurting for that $2,500 at some point but I just couldn't stand having it around anymore and I was racking up a $50 or so monthly finance charge). And I know that I'm capable of more than shit. I swear, this is why people have children. At some point people just give into their mundane-ness and pin their hopes on the next generation. It's the circle of life(lessness).

I'm really jealous of passionate driven people because I swear if someone told me that I could do anything for a living that I wanted to (unrealistic or not), I'd be stumped. There was some promo for I don't know, maybe PBS, where a kid who was maybe ten was obsessed with building bridges. He wrote letters to companies, his family visited an engineering firm while on vacation (the staff even presented him with a bridge cake) and now he's all gung ho on doing well in school and taking the right courses in college. How do you get so set and focused like that, as a tot, no less? I don't begrudge those bridge-building types, I'm in awe. It's the ones who succeed because they've always been surrounded by financially supportive families that disturb me.

I feel paralyzed by the '00s and I'm sick of looking at and keeping up with food writing/blogging. I don't even like food writing. Everyone knows everything and it seems impossible to have a new thought. Or maybe I just don't have any. Every day a new site sprouts on the amateur front as well as the pro side (The Times recently went bloggy, then last week defunct print mag Chow launched The Grinder and New York started Grub Street). I can't keep up with all this shit and watch TV too. Yesterday, I was trying to come up with fresh pitches (I can usually rely on the section of the NY Post that I write for, for select items, but am trying to expand my scope) and getting exasperated because I'm not an insider or connected in any way to the food scene and I hate networking so it's hard to grab trends first (actually, I think this is a NYC dilemma because everyone is so hyper critical and snarky and the standards are insanely high. It got me thinking that I should look at markets outside of the city). I don't even know that I want to write about food, at least not in the precious produce fixated or family traditions ways that are pervasive and currently admired. (From this week's papers: Vegetable Love, Requited, Back to the Ranch, When Life Gives You Apples, Make Pie. Hmm, now that I'm looking The Chicago Tribune has some nutty stories about taste testing chain pizzas and how McDonald's might start serving breakfast all day. Weird place, that Windy City) I want to write about fun things. NYC is many things, but a funny city it is not.

Here's an example of how much things have changed in the last ten years. Before the Food Network hit big and everyone became an expert via blogs, writing about food wasn't terribly trendy. When I first moved here, I recall seeing Pete Wells's byline in Time Out New York quite a bit. He's become prolific and well-respected since then (and recently ruffled countless food bloggers' feathers when he essentially declared most of them a waste of time, which I'd actually agree with even though I'm also guilty of near-daily drivel. I'm not a food blogger, though, and I don't document my meals because I'm an aspiring food critic. It's just a compulsion that occurred to me around 2000, the same geeky impulse that had me tracking Henry Thomas's every move as a twentysomething and writing reviews of every Ray Bradbury short story in a notebook as a teen.) Now he's about to become the editor of the New York Times's dining section, which most would agree is a pretty big deal. So, I searched the Time Out NY archives to see what sorts of food topics he covered in the '90s and it was very telling.

The first piece I found was from 1996 and was about where you find restaurants with fireplaces. There's no way in a million years that anyone, including Time Out NY, would accept that idea today. It's way too simplistic and there isn't any newsy, hot trend angle. It's just, hey, it's cold out, here's where it's cozy. I also found another about where to eat in Coney Island, which I suspect would also be a no go today. Coney Island isn't as creepy (well, my sister's husband who apparently loves Wales, thought it was depressing if that means anything) and off the beaten path as it used to be. I'm not saying New Yorkers go their in droves, but now they have the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Siren Festival, and all sorts of urban renewal in the works. What's uncharted now? The Bronx and Staten Island definitely don't make it into many food sections. Hey, there's an idea…

Anyway, enough boo-hooing and overthinking. Whenever I get into a slump a little old fashioned cyber stalking always perks me up. I put my newly gained news library sleuthing skills to work and deduced that the guy I stalked in college who broke my heart (I still feel an itty bitty pang when I think about it) must've finally broke up with his girlfriend (wife?). They moved into a house she bought in 1994 and it appears that he moved into an apt. in S.E. Portland in 2002. There aren't any records for her with a newer address than the original N.E. Portland house, which I guess could mean that she's living with him and not on the lease but that doesn't really make any sense. Part of me would love it if their relationship dissolved because I firmly believe that everything eventually falls apart for everyone even though I really, really want to believe in true love forever. I mean, eight years for a college-started relationship is long is enough (though he was 24 and she was three years older, not exactly spring chickens, which is strangely NW). When I got out of Portland in the late '90s I was scared of all the settling down mid-20s freaks buying houses, gardening, microbrew drinking, dog walking and the like. Of course, now I'm re-facing the same issues a decade later which was bound to happen because 30s are all about that stuff. Talk to me in my 40s when I'm a real crab.

The Icing on the Cake

Last week I become mildly mesmerized by these demonic tots (that I found via Gawker which they found through Cityrag. I seriously still don't understand the whole blog attribution thing, possibly because I'm not a blogger at heart. Why couldn't I just directly talk about things on Plan 59? Am I linking to be proper, to give props or what?)

It made me think of one of my favorite photos that comes from 1964's The Seventeen Cookbook. That red-sweatered guy watching his cohort pondering a strawberry shortcake is totally up to no good.

(Battered Fried) Beans, the Magic Fruit

I was initially disturbed by that TGI Friday's commercial promoting their "radically new appetizers" where they poke fun with some hippy girl lamenting, "Why would you go and fry green beans? What's next? Holding air hostage?" I was like oh jeez, now they're battering deep frying vegetables (and frying mac and cheese and parmesan crusting quesadillas and calling them Sicilian).

Uh yeah, like the Japanese have been doing with tempura for, I don't know, centuries and they're ok (demented porn, shut ins and suicide fixations, aside) And the Japanese aren't generally fat so fried green beans must be good for you. Of course, tempura is served with a soy based dipping sauce and Friday's appetizer comes with something creamy and 99% fat like Cucumber-Wasabi Ranch.

On the Asian note, dry-fried green beans are amazing. I've used this recipe from Fuchsia Dunlop's A Treasury of Authentic Sichuan Cooking before. She also includes a pork-less version which is better than you might expect.

I also got all knee jerky yesterday when I kept seeing subway ads for ABC's new series, Ugly Betty.  The image of a "fat" Hispanic actress combined with the word ugly didn't sit well with me. But from what I've gathered it's a re-working of a wildly popular Columbian telenovela from the early '00s that's since been a hit in Mexico, Germany, The Philippines and elsewhere. I was reading message boards and people seemed worried that "Columbian humor" wouldn't translate. Now I'm wondering what exactly passes for humor in Columbia. Isn't Nina Garcia, Elle fashionista/Project Runway judge, Columbian? She seems pretty un-funny so my hopes are not high.

The gist seems to be kind of a Devil Wears Prada without the makeover transformation, like the ugly girl stays ugly and prevails. Once again, I have my doubts. The only other show I can think of with a "fat" major character, Less Than Perfect, (love how it needs to be pointed out in the title that she's not ideal) eventually slimmed down.

I've never watched Grey's Anatomy but was bored enough to sit through two freaking repeats last night and I totally don't get its appeal at all. I do like that Patrick Dempsey (and Chris O'Donnell-I was just thinking about him a few months ago, not because I particularly like him, I was trying to think of a male actor who seemed big and then disappeared like Teri Hatcher who went from Lois & Clark to doing C movies with Henry Thomas and now is hot again) is getting work and that they've cast that Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé guy as a Seattle bar owner, but that's about it.

Oh yeah, I also wanted to see Sara Ramirez, the blubbery actress that everyone was boo hooing about last season. I finally got a glimpse and I'm still not convinced that she's fat. I mean, she's fat like America Ferrera's fat (and she appears to have easily shed 20 pounds since her Real Women Have Curves days), which only means not boney. I'd rather be a fat Mexican than that blonde actress who plays a doctor who always looks like she's crying, been crying or about to cry.

The (Pork) Belly of the Beast

I do fully realize that the things that get under my skin have zero relevance to like 98% of the world’s population, but isn’t that what blogs are for (I mean besides posting naked pics)? So, I’m getting tired of hearing about chef Zak Pelaccio’s parents' loft in SoHo. Granted, he’s been the subject of the New York Times’s The Chef column for the past three weeks, hence the August barrage, but enough with setting the scene already. Or maybe the three quotes below were meant to be merely informative and endearing and I’m just a fussbudget.

“IN the climate-controlled comfort of his parents' loft in SoHo, where Zak Pelaccio was cooking some of his favorite Malaysian dishes...” --The New York Times, August 30, 2006

“‘I ate a lot of Cubanos back then because you could get them all over Williamsburg, but I wasn't necessarily interested in putting something so ubiquitous on the menu,'’ he said one recent sultry afternoon in his parent's loft in SoHo.” --The New York Times, August 23, 2006

“Arms laden, he crept through the steaming Chinatown streets (‘I learned to move slow in the heat in Southeast Asia,’ he said) to the cool sanctum of his parents' SoHo loft, borrowed for the afternoon.” --The New York Times, August 16, 2006

I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since I was in Malaysia and reading online how Mr. Pelaccio was opening meatpacking district Fatty Crab, a Malaysian restaurant named after a seafood place in Kuala Lumpur. I kind of love the idea of glamming up this cuisine that’s unpopular in NYC to say the least, but the meatpacking district? Ugh. I’ve half-heartedly intended to check this place out since last September, and never have because I’m not a masochist. His first restaurant Chicken Bone Café, which opened and closed in Williamsburg, was one of my more trying dining experiences. And earlier this year when I went to 5 Ninth to try his much lauded cubano for an article I was writing and they said they didn’t have the pork that day. How do you not have pork, especially when it’s been well publicized how swine crazy the chef is? Plus, I couldn't ignore this 5 Ninth complaint on Eater last week. (I can't help but be a bit porcine focused, myself. I just ran out and got pork belly and rice from the Chinese steam table joint around the corner from my office.) :

"Pelaccio combines a knack for old-fashioned goodness (he's a wizard with pork belly) with an instinct for eye-catching combinations using ingredients from far-off destinations like Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur." --New York Magazine, January 9, 2006

"Pelaccio is the punky, pork-loving chef who apprenticed at The French Laundry and Daniel.. "--Daily News, November 18, 2005

"In the end, just like pork-loving 5 Ninth chef Zak Pelaccio, I prefer my pork fresh, not processed.

'Even when my sister lived in Hawaii and I visited her, I didn't eat Spam,' says the hog-wild Pelaccio, who'd just had a 50-pound pig hung in his cooler."-- Daily News March 16, 2005

"Mr. Pelaccio makes admirable use of pork in several distinctive forms."-- The New York Times, April 30, 2003

His choice of venues give me pause. Now he’s doing dim sum carts (which also sounds cool in theory) at some obnoxious roof top bar 230 Fifth (Ok, I’ve never been but are their un-obnoxious roof top bars in Manhattan)? Double ugh. There aren’t many acclaimed chefs that are so fond of S.E Asian ingredients and are bringing them into the mainstream like he is. I admire that because if I were a chef I would imagine having a similar aesthetic. I’ll even admit to being intrigued by the idea of his often written about watermelon pork belly salad--and I absolutely hate all melons.

But that damn loft. I know I can be closed minded, but I just can’t trust anyone who has parents with a SoHo loft. In the unlikely event that any readers here have parents with SoHo lofts, please enlighten me. I want to understand, not loathe the unknown.

Pig tattoo from SF Gate. I know nothing about chef John Stewart other than what I've gathered from this article.

Top Dogs

It’s not like I have any set mission to champion underdogs (it’s tough when rarely on top, yourself) but I can’t stay away from them, it’s just part of my core being. Wednesday I had quite the dilemma because I was dying to see Henry Thomas in a certain to be bad TV movie, but I also wanted to catch Project Runway and the two were both on a 10pm. Both would replay, but which was most important? I had to go with my first and true love H.T., but if I’d known that my recent nonsensical fixation, Malan Breton was going to be auf’d from PR that episode, I would’ve prioritized differently. My life is full of tough decisions, right?

Ultimately, I got to see both not-fit-for primetime TV guys do their thing. In Nightmares and Dreamscapes, Henry played the genius brother to that Burger (Berger?) guy from Sex and the City who’s also got that new show Standoff coming out (that kid who plays the Jewish terrorist in the commercial must have like the best agent ever because he keeps showing up everywhere. First he was a hybrid in Invasion, then he was a do the right thing teen on Thief, now he’s a yarmulke blow people up type. I don’t much care for him, but I think an upcoming movie that he’s in, The Sasquatch Dumpling Gang is the most awesome name, despite being a Jared Hess flick that'll likely go all '80s pastiche) and I knew he’d get killed off at some point in the show, when was the only question. Technically, he didn’t die until the very end, but it’s a flashback style and in the first few minutes Burger confesses to helping kill Henry so you know he’s dead throughout the entire flick. Very H.T.

I can’t tell if Henry’s aging weirdly or if it was his wardrobe (I thought he started looking kind of good in his late twenties/early thirties, going mildly craggy, but now he’s stating to go kind of warped and sunken. Hmm, he's starting to look like this emotionally disturbed coworker from like five jobs ago who totally stalked me, though I never wrote about it despite being rife with creepy/hilarious moments because I assumed he was reading my website. He could be right now for all I know). He was totally reprising the child molester chic he rocked in that made for TV McMartin trial movie from 1995. It’s the glasses, they turn you into an instant perv. Unfortunately, I can’t find any photos of him online from Indictment.

And then last night I finally got to watch my Project Runway tape (so primitive—I really need to look into this whole DVR thing) and I almost bawled (granted, I had four drinks under my belt and too much imbibing on an empty stomach can induce weepiness) when they cut Malan because it was so wrong. There’s no way he was the worst designer on the episode. There are so many more heinous fashion crimes than making a dress that looks like a tree trunk. Ok, Miss USA would never go on stage in a bark gown (the assignment was designing a gown to her specifications) but still.

I’m totally going to miss bits like when he got all Mommy Dearest and talked about how his mother told him he’d never amount to anything as a child and threw out his sketches. And then at the end I think he said, “I’ve never had many friends” while sobbing (thank God for My Space friends). And that was just so damn heartbreaking and very un-reality TV persona. That was the problem, I think. Sure, he’s colorful and has a slightly bizarre demeanor, but that doesn’t translate well in the reality competition show world. So misguided, so misunderstood (er, I'm still trying to figure out that bit on his bio about having danced with Paula Abdul. I can't not picture him as MC Skat Kat). Even H.T. fares better than he.

Bonus Nonsense

Bad Poetry Odes to Malan
Sisters Make Heart Shaped Cookies for Malan

Skirting the Issue

My hot dog piece ended up getting mushed into a larger round up of summer eats, but it's all in there.

And since Sunday is about randomness, so allow me to share a few things that have nothing to do with anything.

When it's like 90% humidity and close to 100 degrees I can't stand seeing people wearing sweaters. I mean, the word sweat is right in there. I have been noticing women (not a ton, but enough to catch my attention) on my morning commute with full on winter wear and it scares me. I understand if you live someplace where you go straight from an air conditioned home to an air conditioned car to an air conditioned office. But in NYC the average person is cruelly subjected to the elements for extended periods of time. And no, it doesn't make you tougher, it makes you whinier.

Also, it peeves me when people use umbrellas when it's not raining. Yes, it's like a rain forest out there, but an umbrella can't protect against hot moist air. This peculiarity seems to cut across genders and age ranges. And it's not being done like in Asia where people use umbrellas to block the sun. It could be argued that this practice isn't hurting anyone so I should shut up. But taking up unnecessary amounts of sidewalk space affects all of humanity.

This Gap skirt  is becoming the bane of my existence. I bought it last month because it was colorful, relatively cute and most importantly, cheap (it was $19.99 in the store). Now, I see at least one woman a day wearing it (the pink version, not the blue one that's remaining on the website). I guess that's the problem with chain clothing. This skirt is the great unifier. So far I've seen it on skinny and plump ladies, as well as on white, Asian and black women.

Speaking of chain clothing, I was disturbed and confused when I started receiving Good Housekeeping in the mail a few months ago. I would never subscribe to a magazine with Tom Cruise and Rachael Ray on the covers. I eventually figured out that it's a replacement publication for the now defunct Budget Living. It's so not a fair trade. Though by the end of BL's tenure they were showing $90 candy dishes and the like. Despite all of the saving your marriage and helping your children crap (there was this hideous advice column last month where one woman was complaining how coworker would also whisper to her loudly in meetings and make her look bad. And the response was to say something direct along the lines of "Kathy, please be quiet. I really want to hear what Mr. Dickwad has to say." So, women [who are always support staff] commonly address their bosses [who are always men] using their surname like they're in grade school or employed as maids?) in the pages of GH, they do have budget-minded "fashion" spreads. I haven't looked at a magazine in ages that actually includes clothing from Kmart and JC Penny.

Two Dogs Will Kill a Lion?

I don't like seeing emails with subjects like "Your future, much-suffering" even in my junk mail folder and even if it's trying to sell me black market Cialis (and I'm still not sure about the hyphenation of much suffering).

In case anyone actually follows what I say and was wondering whatever happened on the job interviewing front: I didn't get either position. And I hesitate to say anymore than that as I'm obviously still on the market and I know for a fact that someone at of these potential employers was on my website (though honestly, I don't think that had much to do with my not getting the job) and HR just loves seeing potential new hires bitching about the interview process and badmouthing their present employer.

One of the jobs was no biggie because after an initial meeting, I wasn't interested. But I was frustrated yesterday when learning that I didn't get the other one. I made it through two rounds of hardcore interviewing (with seven people and was grilled within an inch of my life) and was subjected to a Wonderlic test (while not a terribly hard test, some of the questions were baffling. A good number of them had to do with picking which proverbs meant the same thing. And phrases like "you'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar" and "cash is king" are standard, but I swear others like "two dogs will kill a lion" are totally made up.  If you Google that one you only get webpages talking about this test. Maybe my lack of familiarity with imaginary proverbs was my downfall) but ultimately it was a no go because someone else had more directly applicable skills (which I'd agree with--I do research/reference not cataloging/database management). And realistically, I was more excited about the salary (and getting out of my current situation, which turned emotionally dire this afternoon) than the actual job.

There's a real shitty life lesson in here and I'm so not about life lessons. But enough (I hate not being able to detail the details) or else I'll just get myself into trouble. I've been trying to distract myself with random amusements like adding Malan Breton as a My Space friend (I'm not fantastical about Project Runway, but I did watch the premier on Wed. and decided that this crazy-voiced, foppish, mascara wearing designer who lives in Long Island City was my favorite, at least initially. It's hard to tell from one episode)

I've also been tracking down images of my favorite TV cliché where the male protagonist is shown as a loner in the distance. Often they are silhouetted by the sun in the background and a long road or railroad tracks are involved. So far, I've thought of Jack Bauer in the last episode of 24 season 4, Michael Landon in the opening credits of Highway to Heaven, David Caradine in the beginning and ending of Kung Fu, and David Banner in The Incredible Hulk. I was lucky that Highway to Heaven aired last Sat., Kung Fu was on Thurs. night and Incredible Hulk will be on next Wed. More suggestions are welcome.

Desperation is More Than a Stephen King Movie

I can't bear to watch American Idol, so I was channel flipping and up a couple clicks was Henry freaking Thomas. I'd totally forgotten that I'd seen him ever so briefly in an ad for Desperation last night. Apparently, he's working his way up from cable and straight to video to prime time major network. I gave his character ten minutes to live. I was wrong, he lasted until 8:20pm before being blown away. It was clear he wasn't going to be integral to the plot since his face wasn't in the promotional montage. Is it better to have been on ABC and died in the first few minutes than to have never been on ABC at all?

Movies. Saturday night I saw Art School Confidential and was most definitely not taken by the film (though it succeeded in freaking me out over how 15 years have past since I was in art school and Daniel Clowes comic was so pertinent and spot on at the time). Very strange that they'd make this movie in 2006 and more strange is how they managed to mangle the story.

  I was more captivated by the one trailer (those weirdo theaters like the tiny one in Brooklyn Heights only show one preview) with French aristocracy and New Order playing in the background. What the fuck was this, and why was I liking it? I knew it had to be something borderline annoying and auteur-ish, but I couldn't help but being fascinated by it. (I suspect that much of my attraction stemmed from hearing "Love Vigilantes," my favorite New Order song. When I first moved here [jeez, this weekend will be my eighth anniversary] I didn't have any of my records [I still don't have them] and really wanted to hear this song so I made my first ever ebay purchase and bought a best of New Order cd and I never received it. Actually, it did eventually show up but a good two months passed before it made it my way. Oh, ecommerce in the '90s)

It was Sophia Coppola's Marie Antoinette, duh. Kirsten Dunst scares me in this boney white trash way. Like she's totally the kind of friend who'd get me into trouble in middle school by smoking or shoplifting or sucking cock--something that would definitely get me punished even if I didn't partake. Kyra Sedgwick has the same look in a grown up version.

TV. I'm so-so on The Sopranos but I do watch it. Sunday's episode baffled me during the scene where Vito was at the skating rink with his wife. They were quietly playing a song in the background that I knew, was completely incongruous to the show, and couldn't for the life of me place. It had to be late '90s, indie, likely from the NW. It's been driving me nuts for the past few days. Clearly, it wasn't something I liked that much or else I'd remember it

OK, I figured it out from going to the source (duh). Wow, very random, no wonder I couldn't remember. It was Gritty Kitty's "Summer Rain" from a '98 Kindercore comp that I probably haven't listened to in five years but is on my shelf. Heck, Gritty Kitty is no New Order. Perhaps they could reunite for Sophia Coppola's next cinematic venture. Maybe Henry Thomas could be given a small role where he's allowed to live for say, 30 minutes. He already did the 17th century France thing in Valmont, where he got to sport a ponytail and brocade.

My Way or the Fairway

Everyone has priorities in life. Me, I took a day off work to check out the new Fairway in Red Hook. I almost spontaneously gave my notice yesterday, which would've been severely stupid since I have zero job prospects at the moment. The only thing that kept me from walking out was the promise of a shiny, new Fairway to visit the following day. Seriously...I never claimed to be un-pathetic.

It's odd because in a car, it's only like five minutes to get to the end of Van Brunt St., but walking it seemed like more of a haul, maybe 30 minutes or so. I took the BQE foot bridge that's across the street from my apt. and then proceeded to get twisted around and ended up over off Lorraine St. where all those busted stores and laundromat are, at the end of the projects. Even the nasty now shuttered Court St. Key Food that the entire (blog) world hated would be an improvement over the Red Hook grocery situation. The Fairway is like a massive jump from shitty to super with never having spent any time in the mediocre middle.

I'm guessing I made it there around 10:35am and I was completely surprised by the lack of massive crowds. Not that I'm complaining, I'm severely pushy people-phobic. Of course, there was lots of rampant shopping cart banging and blocking and the usual slow movers and gawkers. But it was manageable. For a while, there might've been more press than public.

I got overwhelmed and only ended buying a Vitamin Water (lemon-lime perform because you know, I'm a high performing individual). Now that I'm back home and settled in, I wish I would've bought some snacks (there aren't any real grocery stores in Carroll Gardens proper since the Key Foods went bust. Jeez, I can't believe I've managed to bring up that abominable store twice in one post).

I've posted more images on Flickr (yes, I've started buying into the whole Flickr mania--though I could still take or leave You Tube) if you're interested.

The parking lot was about 85% full

They had just wrapped up a stirring rendition of "New York, New York"

 
The Brooklyn Eagle and either a co-owner or the landlord (I've seen this same man with two different names attributed to him in newspapers--maybe the landlord and owner are both large gray-haired men in overalls?).

ho I tCheeses of the

world

A cute alternative to the typical laughing cow cheese. I think the text was in Hebrew.

I'm not cheese obsessed, I was just trying to find something for price comparison. Blue Castello, one of my middlebrow favorites, was $4.29 (or $4.59--my mind is blanking) which seemed spendy. It's only 99-cents at the East Village Cheese Shop, but then theirs is also half-rancid half of the time.

The bakery scene. I managed to abstain from the free cookies

No crowd for meat

Awesome. The world has totally gone squeezable crazy. I mean, is there such a high demand for convenient cranberry sauce?

Bounty of produce. They had some nice looking heirloom tomatoes, but I wasn't on a mission to buy.

Just a lone mopper on this aisle

In case you were interested. I've always been scared of grocery store bathrooms so I didn't go in.

Firemen love dry aged meat. Isn't there a beefcake joke in there somewhere?

There was a mob for free samples of jumbo shrimp, off to the left.

No lines at checkout--I wonder how long that'll last.

Heath Lemongrass

Thank you to whoever accidentally ended up on my site by googling Jake Galangal Brokeback Mountain yesterday. The notion of Mr. Gyllenhaal combined with a rhizome was the only thing that made me laugh all day (What about his friend Heath Lemongrass? Oh my, I’m a hoot. Speaking of, what exactly is Hoot? I can’t be bothered to actually look it up and I would just be disappointed anyway. I keep seeing the ad in subway stations and it cracks me up for no particular reason. Maybe the word hoot is just funny, maybe I just prefer an owl popping out of a hole in the ground to all those horrible fading Failure to Launch posters. Or those yucky new ones with Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Anniston sitting in bed together being inamicable). And if you suspect that the silly graphic on the left is the work of someone with too much free time on your hands, you’d actually be wrong. I’ve been severely lacking in goof off moments lately and it really kind of sucks. In fact, I have to stop blathering this very second and do urgent, non-fun things.

TV Turnon Week

A couple weeks ago I was at Blockbuster (I know, who rents videos/dvds anymore?) because all the movie theater movies in the area sucked, and of course, most of the dvds sucked too (we ended up with Walk the Line). But James pointed at one of the boxes and commented, “Henry Thomas is in that” and I thought he was full of shit because generally, he doesn’t indulge my petty manias, and I’m not fully convinced that he would recognize Henry Thomas. The only male face on the 11:14 box was Patrick Swayze’s and for a second I thought James was trying to tell that was H.T. I should stop being such a doubter because it was totally true, and he even remembered that it was on Showtime last night and reminded me.

In classic H.T. fashion, this had to be a straight-to-video number. It’s from 2003 and has a motley cast that includes said Mr. Swayze, Barbara Hershey, Hillary Swank and Rachael Leigh Cook, and I’ve never ever heard of the damn thing. Henry is only in the opening and closing scenes, and without getting into the plot I’ll just say that it’s one of those madcap, dark comedy, interconnected coincidences told from varying perspectives kinds of films.

I normally have a hard time sitting through movies at home, but somehow I managed to watch the tail end of Sixteen Candles (I’m still at little freaked out that the movie is 22 years old--boy does that Long Duck Dong humor hold up well) on Universal HD and then afterwards caught the most demented, zany movie that I’ve never heard of in my life, Playing for Keeps. This channel clearly has some winners. At first I thought it was For Keeps (which I actually saw in the theater--I think my aunt took me and my sister as a cautionary measure) and they were doing a Molly Ringwald retrospective or something.

But, no this is a gem directed by Harvey Weinstein about street smart NYC teens who buy a dilapidated upstate hotel and turn it into a club called Hotel Majestic. At first is seems like the antithesis of the John Hughes suburban genre. It starts out kind of gritty in that New York when it was still scary way, but then it turns so cheesy it’s hard to believe your eyes, with lots of dance sequences involving leotards and splatter art and lightening bolts. There’s even an Arcadia song playing during one of the scenes. How come I’ve never heard of this movie before?

Thank god TV Turnoff week has come and gone because I can’t abide that shit (I’m appalled my much of the eating habits on Honey We’re Killing the Kids. I love it when they have to throw out all their junk food and force everyone to eat vegetables and fish, but the 30 minutes of TV rule pains me. I also love how they do the projected aging thing and that somehow if the kids keep eating so poorly, they’ll inevitably end up with mullets, facial hair, tattoos and earrings but wear khakis and oxfords if they get healthy. I think the premise of this show is decent, but they expect way too much. I mean, these are families who seriously eat take out pizza and hamburgers every single day and can’t cook and then they give them recipes and shopping lists for things like stir-fried tofu and paella and no one will eat any of it and the kids end up crying. You can’t jump straight into bean curd and mussels. They should transition them with say, veggie burgers or oven baked fries, healthy versions of familiar foods). I do promise not to watch bad movies for four hours straight for at least a few days.