That's a weekly (part-time) (pre-tax) salary of $234! But, one likes to imagine parrying phone calls from Burt Reynolds would be part of the job. Play us off, Honey Cone. But first, unembeddable, but more relevant:
But! More interesting, marginally, is the shoes. Mario does not shed trademark Crocs for the sake of the costume -- one imagines he is contractually obligated to wear them at all times, no? The Fieri-in-Crocs image prompts Eater to reset an earlier Batali/Fieri throwdown. Plugging a fundraiser called Asphalt Chef, Fieri climbs into the cab of the stupidest, most vulgar vehicle ever created, and runs over a pair of orange Crocs. A giant "whatever"? Sure, except for Fieri's hommage to 80s rap footnote Kool Moe D, and is beef w/ LL Cool J. Guiteau Monday might dress up, but it never takes the week off.
Derp. In one analogy, (The Cod is no enemy of analogy, beetubs), this Glen Duncan fellow reveals his total incomprehnsion of literary fiction, genre fiction, intellectuals, dating, and sex work. And "hanky-panky pay dirt"? Is this a Playboy Advisor from 1970? And he drops "deconstruction" like Hilton Kramer had a column in Highlights. But the good news is that Colson Whitehead, consistently the best thing about Twitter, wrote a book with zombies. Fuck this guy in the Times, want you some Colson Whitehead zombie novel? Get you some.
This week, the lads head down 85 to Atlanta. The city too busy to hate has not had a lot of love for Clemson, with recent debacles too numerous to mention. But! The Cod has been following the cue of mental health professionals by discouraging use of the words "always" and "never," and Vegas is smiling on the Tigers. Chez Cod, the main will be a reboot of the Rick-Fil-A. And, to enjoy the game in hi-def glory at Jimmy Howard's place, sriracha crackers. Paw-shaped sriracha crackers. Details tk.
So, the conversation about artisanal and fautisanal rolls along, this time with some actual good news. Through the good offices of specialty-foods kingpin Rick "Rick's Picks" Field, the Cod got hooked up with some newcomers in the condiment world. If you wear Dockers, drive a minivan, or listen to Coldplay, these are not for you. Stick with your comfortable suburban life-in-death, and keep slathering your burgers with Heinz, and keep that bottle of what you probably call "rooster sauce" you got that one time you attempted to escape from the beige hell of your life with Thai cooking classes at the local community college in the door of your fridge. I think there's a new episode of Family Guy for you to watch.
But! If you prefer a zesty life, and have not tired of food made from ingredients, rather than in factories, consider these alternatives:
1) Sir Kensington's Scooping Ketchup. It takes some getting used to, but what you realize you are getting used to is a ketchup that does not taste like Heinz, and is neither Hunt's nor store brand. It tastes like a smooth tomato chutney, because that's what ketchup is if you make it the right way. Rather than the orchestrated homogeny of the flavor notes in Heinz -- HFCS, mostly -- you taste ingredients. There is regular and spiced, and the spiced splits the difference between BBQ sauce and ketchup, minus the cloying sweetness of either. Looking forward to a full scale burger road test for the spiced. The regular Kensington's upgrades a burger, but I suspect the spiced would transform it.
2) Jojo's. Way more underground than Sir Kensington's, which, after all you can get at Dean & DeLuca, which means even people from Fairfield can get their hands on it. Jojo's does not even have a website, just a FB page. If you saw all the bands at CMJ last summer on a roof in Brooklyn, you will like JoJo'. The packaging is a squiggle from a Sharpie on the lid of a tiny jar. (If Marcel the Shell were to get in the speciality food racket, it would look like this.) More even than the Sir Kensington's one is aware of a food made out of what it is made out of -- it takes some adjustment to get used to "local, organic chili peppers, organic vinegar, organic evaporated palm sugar, organic garlic, sea salt, love" Jojo is still tinkering with the pepper mix, but the versions The Cod sampled were full of flavor and heat, without fratastic excesses liable to blister you from your guggle to your zatch. Any knucklehead can make a hot sauce. It takes finesse to make a spicy condiment. Kensington and Jojo get it -- they will spoil you for the pedestrian world of Heinz, Huy Fong, and quiet desperation.
Anchower, I know. Up to my proverbial ass in day job alligators this week. But, A) Gawker follows the Cod's suit in calling bullshit on fake artisanal, though they do not pick up on the Cod's fautisanal coinage. Elsewhere, the Times has a puzzling article that says the bobos are tired like Lilly Von Schtupp of "vintage" and "artisanal" items. However, in both cases, what the Inigo Montoya said. (And speaking of people not knowing what a word means, click image at left.) It is a good trick. Folks get tired of mass marketed crap, food or furnishings, seek alternatives. Then, The Man gloms on, does a few Darjeeling Express tweaks for Anthropologie or Pottery Barn, saturates/fatigues market, announces that folks are tired of "vintage" (although not in the sense of an old object w/ a provenance story that connects it to the owner) or "artisanal" (although not in the sense of having been produced by, you know, an artisan), and announces a return to your regularly scheduled mass-marketed crap.
It is, actually, a variation on the water that Bruni hauls for the man here. Let's call it jade 'n' trade. Somewhere, someone rethinks the mode and scale and production of a consumer good -- sofa pillows, or coffee, or whatever. Then, you can get your handcrafted, shade-grown, whatever it is. It's better than what you were getting from Starbucks or Target. You can maybe feel a little better about fewer Chinese toddlers participating in its production. And then suddenly, Bruni, or Rush, or that twerp from the jeans commercials, tells you that you can't get a plan cup of coffee any more, what with the baristae chasing you down the street, cloroforming you, and pouring estate-grown, shade-harvested Tanzanian Peaberry down your throat. (See also, hipster as enemy of late capitalism, tk.) Cue fake nostalgia for the good old days when America Ran on Dunkin, and repudiation of commodity produced with marginally more social concern.
When and as, time permits, watch for the Cod to go ham on a particularly revolting twist on fautisanal.
Sez Eater, there is a rumor that the next lead DI/DO critic will be Brett Anderson, who is currently the lead critic for the New Orleans Times Picayune. This is, by definition, puzzling, considering that being a restaurant critic in New Orleans is the best job in the world. Schnelly left the U for the USFL, and that feels like that kind of choice.