As an adult, I'm with the Kings that you should not eat deep dish pizza unless you are Dennis Franz. The bagel question is a tougher one, what with the proliferation of really terrible New York-style bagels at NYC places that should know better. MTL style is not for everyone. Ironically, if I were looking for a reliable bagel in NYC, my first instinct would be to hit up Mile End for a MTL style bagel in Brooklyn.
For reasons easy to imagine, but tedious to relate, not the Cod's favorite time of year, specifically the part where we pivot from being thankful to trampling oneanother for flatscreen discounts. And "cyber Monday" is not part of the solution - a) it carries this spasmodic consumerism into the next week, and b) "cyber" is a word best left to the 900-baud era of online pornography.* That said, it is phyisically impossible to get mad at a Cheerwine robot telling you how to get some Cackalacky** hot sauce for Xmas giving:
Thanksgiving torture porn has been a thing ever since the intermission of Grindhouse, but it reaches macabre new heights this year, via the unexpected medium of the employee newsletter.
The same sociopath who sends out an email every feb suggesting getting a room at the campus conference center for a romantic Valentine's getaway is now encouraging subcontracting campus catering to do your Thanksgiving cooking. The rest of the story here is that the Cod's day job's catering is in the steely grip of Aramark - thus what you would be saying to your guests who brave the vagaries of holiday travel to sit at your table is: "Happy Thanksgiving! I care so much about this harvest celebration that I contracted with Aramark to feed you, after a fashion!" There may be more emphatic ways to say "fuck you," but I can't think of many.
Feast your eyes on the choices, if you dare. Because it just wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a jug of sweet tea and a red velvet cake. Seriously - forget Eli Roth, this is some Lars Von Trier stuff happening.
So at the day job, the Cod's host is teaching a novel about a man who goes to sleep in 1887, and wakes up in 2000, which made me more receptive to the idea that I might have gone to sleep in 2013, and woken up in 2006. I guess Martha Stewart said some things about bloggers that were not nice, and now the Amateur Gourmet leaps to their defense, just like George Bush was president and Pete Wells still worked at Food & Wine. As some of you have noticed, I used to be more active in this space than I am now, but I enjoy getting on here now and again, and I enjoy many of the folks I met here and keep up with via Twitter. As such, it's curious to me that the AG defends blogging by pointing out how some bloggers rise to the level of, uh, not blogging:
(BTW, invoking The Pioneer Woman in a defense of blogging is like making Mitch Albom the cornerstone of your reboot of Aereopagitica, but I digress.) Martha's diss of bloggers was probably infelicitious, but not inaccurate. Ultimately, efforts to defend food blogging qua food blogging end up looking like this:
...get the fuck out. This anecdote comes in a piece about Yelp bullies. (It probably helps when if a Yelp review makes you cry, you can dry your tears on the ribbon of your James Beard Award medallion.) But the more inspiring part is this. The Cod sure wishes he could employ a similar comp and toss approach at his day job:
There is the larger issue of how everyone involved in college football stacks paper, except for the fellows playing it (and, usually, the universities themselves, but I digress). But more immediately, WTF? There are plenty of restaurants with sandwiches with whimsical names, but usually there is some connection to the name (The Jack Nicholson has ham, the Milli Vanilli has tofurkey, etc). The problem here is that any of these entrees could be switched with another name. Clowney Reuben makes as much sense as Watkins Reuben, in that a sandwich of corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, Russian dressing, grilled on rye, has exactly as much to do with a preturnaturally talented defensive end as with a preturnaturally talented wide receiver, which is to say, nothing.
These days, it’s pretty easy to get free recipes on the Internet. I’m sure a search for “roast chicken recipe” will turn up thousands and thousands. But, as with so much on the web, you should tread lightly if you don’t know the source."
What makes Cooks' worth paying for is precision. As in his potato salad is worth legal protection because it tells you that you need two, and not three, pounds of potatoes. However, this precision does not seem to extend to other areas of Mr. Kimball's life, in that he forgot how many times he had been married:
(Tip of the fin to my tipster.) It happens to the best of us, right? Hard to keep track of all the women, right, Chris? Somewhat more surprising is a) that Kimball tried to sneak this past the NYT wedding fact checkers, who are Pinkertons. When the Cod and cinetrix got hitched, the NYT called my crappy adjunct gig to confirm that it was, in fact, a real crappy adjunct gig. Play us off, Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock:
If you have some free time this morning, call up history and anthropology depts at your favorite HBCU pretending to be from Paula Deen's peopleand see if they can rustle up an historically black college professor to take her through a a "scared-straight [educational] slave experience." The mind reels, especially in the context of the recent Paula Deen porn speculation.
More seriously, this "Reputation Doctor" is terrible at his job -- his notion suggests Magical Negro thinking taken to its logical extreme. Using Powers, a kindly Negro professor can help Paula Deen put her life back together by teaching her not to be a racist?
The Cod's first higher ed gig was at an HBCU, so I may be dwelling on this more than otherwise, but how would this look in a tenure file. "This year I wrote two articles, presented at three conferences, and built a replica slave ship so disgraced food personality Paula Deen could grasp the horrors of the Middle Passage."
Over the years, the Cod has traced the back-and-forth between chefs and diners over how much say each should have over what goes on the plate. The Cod's position is here. It is, however, a game of give-and-take: if you tell Dave Chang that you like your aged ribeye well done, or tell Grant Achatz to delete mushrooms from his 37 course tasting menu, those dudes can and should run you out of the restaurant. On the other hand, there are some restaurants that feature a more collaborative relation between chef and patron, as in various burrito and wrap places where you point to items in sequence and have them inserted into your cylindrical lunch or not, depending on your preference. It's sort of like Missile Command meets salad bar. (And there are fancy restaurants that will put your dressing on the side, or believe you when you tell them you are allergic to cranberries, or whatever, and there are fast food places where how they got it is how you get it, but I digress)
Recently, back in the muchbeloved LOTB&TC, there was a misunderstanding about whose vision should prevail:
According to police, Drouin fled the station, but the employee refused to let her get away. “The sub-maker, determined not to let Drouin escape justice, gave pursuit catching up to her on Hancock Street near Quincy City Hall and holding her until Transit [and] Quincy Police arrived,” according to the report. Droiun complained of neck injuries and was transported to a local hospital. Police say the suspect told them that the “whole incident began over ‘too many pickles.’”
You are reading that correctly. Lady ordering a sub! At a Nathan's Famous! In a T station! On the Red Line! Attacks the submaker when sandwich is not prepared expressly to her specifications. How many mistakes can you count: 1) Ordering a cheesesteak not in Philadelphia. 2) Ordering a sandwich from a place known for hot dogs. 3) Eating food from a restaurant in a subway station. (I am sure there is some place like Kyoto where the best ramen in the city is in a subway station, but this is Quincy Center.) Guiteau Monday keeps rolling along, and it's not even noon.