Posts from the ‘Small Tragedies’ Category

Jan 10

New Levels of Nuttiness

Goober I’m not really about newsiness, if you haven’t noticed. I much prefer writing about things of little importance than current events. But I swear I’ve been channeling the New York Times dining section for the past two weeks. Last Wednesday they had the article about creating an indoor market in NYC when I had just been talking about the very thing (mostly an inner monologue) after visiting Toronto’s St. Lawrence Market.

Today, they tackled a pet peeve that I was actively researching for no purpose whatsoever last week: food allergies. This was prompted by a woman sitting at the table next to me at beerbistro on New Year’s Eve who made a point of asking if the desserts had peanuts in them because she was allergic. But she didn’t seem truly concerned, especially since she’d already taken a bite. I imagine if you were genuinely prone to goober-induced anaphylactic shock you would be more diligent than that.

I’ve always been very suspicious of people who claim allergies because I think with adults it’s just a way of legitimizing food aversions and quirks. A former coworker used to mention her chocolate allergy whenever treats were brought into the office, and I was convinced it was just a mental thing to keep from eating desserts. With kids it seems more the domain of neurotic overeducated, wealthy-yet-not-working mommies who have no real problems to fixate on. Seriously, according to the CDC only twelve people died from food allergies in 2004 (their most recent data).

Too bad I’m not a Harper’s subscriber because I’d like to read this month’s article, “Everyone's gone nuts: The exaggerated threat of food allergies.” “Are the dangers of childhood food allergy exaggerated?” provides a scholarly UK perspective.

So, I was a bit relieved that today’s article, “Food Allergies Stir a Mother to Action” painted Robyn O’Brien as somewhat of a crackpot. I do think it’s notable that children are increasingly allergic to food and I don’t doubt that manufacturers play some role with unnecessary chemicals and additives. But I just can’t take a grown woman seriously when her arms are smaller than her single-digit-aged daughter’s. Intentionally emaciated limbs ≠ person possessing sound reasoning.

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Jan 7

Move Over, w00t

Raffish
While skimming New York’s Where to Eat 2008 at the gym (sure, it’s borderline grotesque to ogle steak photos while on an elliptical trainer) I was less dismayed at not having dined at a single best new restaurant of the year than by Adam Platt's rampant use of the word raffish.

I’m the last one to scrutinize repetition; my own bloggy vocabulary is extremely limited. Yet somehow, what seems forgivable online can feel egregious in print. I thought I might’ve been mistaken at first because I wasn’t taking in every word (my blood pressure prescription has run out [yes, my health is on par with an elderly male thanks to some shitass genes] and I genuinely feared I might have a heart attack or stroke while peddling). But now that I’m nice and sedentary in front of a computer I can see that I was correct: raffish was used four times in one—to be fair, long—article.

So, who was raffish in 2007?

The Waverly Inn

To gain access to the pleasingly raffish dining-room sanctum occupied by Carter and his chums, you’ll need a special phone number or e-mail address, or you’ll have to show up personally, then get on your hands and knees and beg.

dell’anima

Whenever I’m ambling down Eighth Avenue in the West Village, I like to duck into the raffish new bar-restaurant dell’anima for a stack of the crunchy house bruschette before proceeding to Centro Vinoteca…

Allen & Delancey

The raffish, deceptively stylish restaurant has a candlelit bar area up front, where you can buy all sorts of advanced mixological creations.

Death & Co.

If I can still walk after that, I’ll stagger a couple of blocks south, to the raffish new cocktail hangout Death & Co., to dine on sophisticated bar snacks like lamb sliders, and quesadillas stuffed with braised duck…

That’s a lot of freaking raffishness for one year. I’m hoping for a rash of rakish eateries in 2008.

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Dec 18

Most Wanted

Mostwanted

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

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Dec 18

Whine Bar

I was going to post this last week and forgot about it and was about to discard it because now it’s old news, plus complaining isn’t attractive. Unfortunately, now I have to because this weekend I ran into a friend at a party who was raving about how great Viñas is and I realize people who live in Williamsburg have wildly different standards from mine but I can’t allow delusional folks to perpetuate falsehoods. So, my friend, her South American boyfriend and a Zagat employee who treated them to a meal love this place. So much so that it was brought up as a fun New Year’s Eve dining spot. That already breaks my rule for a Williamsburg/’80s music-free new year. It’s going to be a tough 2008, I fear.

Original post (ha, or should I say blog as is the new-style parlance):

Generally, I hate eating in Williamsburg. The only time I ever dine in the neighborhood (my hand so wants to type ‘hood or nabe) is when I get a haircut every three months or so, which lord knows, sounds way lamer than just flat out eating in Williamsburg but I’ve yet to find any professional with better prices who grasps non-ugly styling. (Here’s my new cut if you’re into exhibitionist MySpace crap—I don’t like putting photos of myself here despite the Me in the title)

But if for some reason you like to eat in Williamsburg, stay away from Viñas. I know the no seating until your party has arrived deal is an annoying standard but they went beyond. I’m punctuality-crazed but was fifteen minutes later than expected thanks to the G train. I said I’d meet James there at 7:15 and didn’t make it till 7:30. He showed up fifteen minutes early, which was also uncharacteristic. It was a perfect storm of time management flubs.

They wouldn’t let him have a drink at the bar (because essentially most of the seating is at the bar, I assume) even though the room was empty. They wouldn’t let him stand inside and wait either. It’s not that small of a space–75-seats according to New York. And now that we’re into winter weather, it seems especially rude. What kind of restaurant insists you must leave when it’s not even half-full? I don’t want to turn into a fussbudget, but it seems kind of ridiculous because couldn’t you just change your tune and say you were dining solo, oh, and then a friend stops by like fifteen minutes later?

So, there wasn’t any way we were going to eat there when the full party, i.e. me finally showed up. Ok, out of curiosity we did pop in to ask about seating for two and were quoted 30 minutes. Please, it’s just pan-latin tapas.

Old standby Diner, a block away, seated us immediately and my duck breast with sweet potatoes (mysteriously crunchy and brown) “spaetzle” and endive salad with lardons, poached egg and walnut vinaigrette were uber-seasonal and higher caliber than much of what passes for edible in the area. I can’t really find fault with them, though that chain restaurant-style of waiters crouching at your table has always weirded me out. And somehow we managed to spend $100 without even realizing it. Still, it’s $100 that thankfully wasn’t wasted on a needlessly attitudinal new wine bar.

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Dec 5

Poster Children

Please tell me that using blog as a synonym for blog post isn’t standard parlance. It took me years to come to terms with using the word blog, at all, and this bastardization is making me feel icky all over again. I was hoping it was exclusive to dolts like Rosanna Scotto and/or the elderly but it’s cropping up more and more.

A good friend even used it recently, as in, “I read your blog on…” First, I was like, “Really? Someone actually reads this?” Then, I was jarred by her word usage and had to remind myself that this is someone who didn’t know who Tim Gunn was and doesn’t understand why Zach Braff is even grosser than the word blog.

I don’t take specific issue with chef Traci Des Jardins or Epi Log, but it was the first sentence of her first ever post today that made me question the evolution of English, and I could really give a rat’s ass about grammar and purity of language (obvs).

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Nov 14

L’Eggo my Eggo

In my nine-and-a-half NYC years, I’ve pretty much managed to re-buy all the kitchen appliances and utensils I left behind in Portland and then some (though I’ve never been able to justify another juice machine and toaster oven).

But I don’t think I ever had a waffle maker and finding one is more problematic than I realized. It seems that all they sell now (at least at mainstream stores like Target and Wal-Mart) are Belgian-style waffle makers. I don’t want big squares and fluffiness. I never even eat waffles, but I might if I could make ones that were crispy with lots of close together crisscrossed ridges.

Eggos aren't Belgian-style, Waffle House doesn't serve Belgian..why are Belgian waffle makers the standard machine?

And is it my own fault for shopping at big box stores or is this a rampant epidemic all over?

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Nov 12

I Went All the Way to Forest Hills and All I Got Was This Lousy Peanut Butter Granola Bar

“We should’ve gone to New Jersey,” was one of the first things I heard after shoving my way into the new Queens Trader Joe’s. Ah, no truer words have ever been spoken by a stranger. (I rarely go in for message board posting and have yet to chime in on this egullet discussion, but I am a proud car-owning [well, car-owning household] New Yorker who chooses to go to New Jersey for food. Not so much for hidden gems as for chain restaurants and big box stores, which is why I haven’t gotten involved with the foodie back and forth.)

Where else can you pick up some chocolate-covered edamame and satiate all of your scrapbooking needs in the same shopping trip? Welcome to the borough's first Trader Joe's and Michaels Crafts.

I refused to believe James’s prediction that the latest Trader Joe’s addition would suck by virtue of being in NYC. It bummed me out that we missed opening weekend while in Beijing, but that also allowed two weeks for any initial crowds to die down. I don’t want to be negative all the time, so on the ride over I trying to justify how the Forest Hills location is so isolated (no subway access) that it would keep away the riff raff. Instead, it’d only be local curiosity seekers and intrepid yet misguided folks like us who should know better.

I was wrong. It was a nightmare. My photos don’t convey the crush, but the aisles were impenetrable. It was no less packed than my first and last Union Square TJ’s foray (and the paunchy, non-young employees here were most definitely not art students/candidates for American Apparel ads) Carts were pointless, though it didn’t stop people from trying to approximate normal shopping behavior anyway, creating irreparable traffic jams.

I wanted to grab four yogurts but couldn’t even get within arm’s reach of the shelf. I eyeballed a wedge of Cambozola yet was kept from it by a solid wall of zombies just standing and staring at the cheese case like they’d never seen dairy products before. The granola bar section never materialized at all, and settling on peanut butter bars from an end display instead of finding the sweet and salty ones I had my heart set on was the final straw. Plus, they didn’t carry Plugra butter like the New Jersey locations. And no, they don’t sell wine.

I could only be angry at myself for giving NYC the benefit of the doubt. The remedy for my gross miscalculation was to head up the street to Eddie’s Sweet Shop for a soothing hot fudge sundae.

New York does best when it sticks with what it knows; faded, old-timey ice cream parlors are a resounding success while facsimiles of quirky, low-priced faux gourmet chains are excruciatingly bad.

Trader Joe’s * 90-30 Metropolitan Ave., Forest Hills, NY (local press is calling this Rego Park, but that seems a bit off to me)

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Nov 7

Hungry Like the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Warren_cuccurullo I can’t ignore that every single blurb on new Soho Vietnamese eatery Bun, mentions that “former Duran Duran guitarist Warren Cuccurullo” is co-owner. Warren Cuccurullo isn’t a real Duran Duran member, ok? Never was. Whether Bun is worth visiting is beside the point, no decrepit Duranie should abide such sacrilege.

While I see the fun immediacy in texting in IMing, I still find it hard to believe that only a decade ago, people, low-level celebrities included, actually wrote handwritten letters and months might go between correspondence. After once referring to All-American Girl as unstalkable in print (there was no Googling this shit), I got a letter from Margaret Cho.

I was probably taken to task, but what I remember most about her missive was that she’d attended some Duran Duran related event, got drunk and went over to Warren Cuccurullo’s mom and started in on how he wasn’t a real Duran Duran member. I could only applaud this misguided effort to right the wrongs of music’s past.

Sure, Warren replaced Andy, the gross unlovable Duran Duran member, but if I heard Andy Taylor was opening a Thai restaurant in Tribeca, I’d hotfoot it over immediately. Even though I’m sure the curries would suck. At least Andy would wear a shirt.

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Oct 13

Fighting Tooth and Nail

Maybe it’s because I just got a filling (those eight years of dentist-avoidance are starting to catch up with me. I never used to get cavities. I fear that my 20/20 vision is the only thing still going for me. Now, it’s only a matter of time before cholesterol, diabetes and other inevitables start ravaging my system. But I’m definitely having second thoughts about picking a Brooklyn dentist, the original logic being an office I could walk to in case I ever had to be anesthetized. It’s all stereotypes you could imagine. While drilling my teeth, the phone repair guy forced his way back to our room and got into an altercation about a job taking too long even though the dentist had given him $20 to work quickly, and the repair guy didn’t speak English and the dentist didn’t speak Spanish so they were angrily translating through the dental hygienist, all the while the pressure and pulling in my mouth got more aggressive as this situation escalated. I will definitely not return to this office when and if I ever decide to get my wisdom teeth out) or because I’m at my bedroom computer, which I rarely use since I got a laptop for Christmas, but I’m out of sorts.

There’s no excuse for feeling irrationally downtrodden; it’s Friday, the weather is finally crisp, I’m leaving for China in twelve days, there’s a fun food adventure planned for tomorrow, my copy of Dead Boys showed up at the library last week and it’s really good (reading fiction before going to bed instead of browsing websites [urgh, I almost typed Web sites, which is the wrongheaded style I must use at work] is so much more satisfying)…but I’m one of those moods where I hate everything and want to lay in bed for a week. Is that indulgent or pitiful?

The grunginess of the spaces between the keys on my keyboard is bothering me, and my irritation starts at my fingers and spreads outward to infinity. I can’t concentrate because I’ve run out of room on my shelf for magazine storage and now there’s a foot-high pile of newish issues stacking up on a speaker, my cat hasn’t stopped pooping on the floor and peeing on my clothes since spring (I had to remove all of my clothes from the bottom shelf they’re stacked on—not having drawers for nearly a decade also irks me—and now they’re piled in my windowsills, which is doubly irksome), the zipper on my only decent winter coat has been broken since last year and I don’t know how to fix it, the prospect of dyeing my rapidly graying hair dark brown for the rest of my life only to have it fade to copper a few weeks later is demoralizing, letting it just go gray is even more demoralizing, I need to move my old Tripod site to save a few bucks a month but never find the time, this here blog makes me crazy because the design was only meant to be temporary and it’s not like web weaving is my forte, plus I’m sick of the name, and I don’t mean to write about food so much but I’m too old to regale the world with personal foibles, and now I’m annoyed for even saying that because I don’t really believe that personal foibles ever get stale, long live personal foibles, I want my apartment to look stylish and thought out rather than being a junk heap—I would be fine with a ReadyMade or the low end stuff from Domino look, there’s no need for Elle Décor or Dwell…

Do you know how ridiculous/embarrassing it is to complain about a two-floor apartment in NYC with a dishwasher, washer and dryer and two refrigerators? That’s like weighing 120 pounds and thinking you’re fat (unless you’re a dwarf, in which that case might be tubby). See? Now I’ve crossed the line and annoyed myself, which is great because now I feel much better and can shut the fuck up. But seriously, what do you do with a grown cat who refuses to use a litter box even when you clean it twice a day?

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Sep 23

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

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Posts from the ‘Small Tragedies’ Category

New Levels of Nuttiness

Move Over, w00t

Most Wanted

Whine Bar

Poster Children

L’Eggo my Eggo

I Went All the Way to Forest Hills and All I Got Was This Lousy Peanut Butter Granola Bar

Hungry Like the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Fighting Tooth and Nail

Machismo, Page and Screen

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101