THE GURGLING COD

Lolly, Lolly

The vibe is seductively dark and sexy and there are a few secluded booths where you can dine clandestinely behind strappy leather curtains.

Toxic Bitches

Now and again something pops up in the news or in the tubes that inspires paralysis. The systolic dudgeon is up around 180, but the thought of re-reading the offending piece, posting on it and moving on is unpalatable because it would involve re-reading the thing that got me pissed in the first place. I'd missed out on the Skinny Bitch phenomenon until it popped up in the DI/DO, but my luck ran out on Wednesday. What nobody seems to have pointed out is that these women (not gonna abet their brand by calling them names) are the Dov Charney of the food world. Like the American Apparel founder, these women are promoting positive social values (in the food industry, rather than textiles) using a reprehensible philosophy of gender and sexuality. Actually, the waif taint iconography Charney uses to push panties is probably healthier than the worldview coming out of SBITK:

“You know how you feel when a tall, thin, pretty woman walks by and something inside you wants to say, ‘That skinny bitch!’?” said Ms. Barnouin, who happens to be tall, thin and pretty. “The book takes that envy and anger and gives you a new place to put it.”

The world needs more of this shit (hollerin atcha, US weekly and imitators), like it needs more pan-Asian restaurants. I am not going to plough deeply into SB bibliography, but getting women to buy shit by making them feel shitty is the oldest trick in the book.  I don't see how wanting to get skinny so other women will not like you is an improvement over wanting to get skinny so men will like you. According to a t-shirt for sale at an alumnae reunion I crashed recently, my girl Madeline Albright says "There is a special place in hell for women who refuse to help each other." A self help industry with a foundation based on making women feel like shit suggests that there's a warm spot waiting for these women. In all, further evidence that being a vegan may make you stupid.

As a palate cleanser, the kind of Toxic that is good for you (contains swearing, and some weird stuff about Muppets) Hope Asgard is treating you well, ODB.

I know.

*Charney is probably ahead of the game here, as not having textiles made by eight year olds in China is a clearer social plus than heeding edicts of an alumna of an "unaccredited school for alternative health"

Guns and Roses and Brooklyn Inn

Last spring, I read Danny Meyer's book, Setting the Table. I usually shy away from the business self-help genre, but I needed something to read, and I found it oddly compelling. Meyer makes a persuasive case  for relentless, ruthlessly focused customer service as the hallmark of his success. There is something a bit koolaidy about the whole thing, but over the next few months, I frequently found myself thinking, as a barista rolled his eyes and charges me a nickel for a glass for water after I've just paid three dollars for an iced coffee, that "that would go down differently at a USHG  spot." If my most sustained interaction with a Meyer employee -- a lunch at 11 Madison Park, where the sommelier took good care -- is any indication, Meyer gets his employees to practice what he preaches. But over in Brooklyn, Jason Furlani, proprietor of the Brooklyn Inn, is taking his cues from the Axl Rose School of Media Relations, checking in with Eater thus:

Here's a news-flash, jackass - yes, we raised some prices (ONLY on premium liquor - not beer, wine, or otherwise) to standards comparable with the NEIGHBORHOOD - not Manhattan or the "gastro-pub" frat-boy places some individuals speculated the place would be. Yes, we are looking for more creative ways to provide seating WITHOUT removing the pool table. And finally, YES, we're fucking there to stay. And I gotta tell you, as a long-time Brooklynite myself - all this bullshit from the faceless bloggers is simply proof that YOU ain't about Brooklyn - you're bullshit. So fuck off. If "you" or anyone doesn't like something about the Inn - here's a little free advice... DON'T FUCKING DRINK THERE!

Lesson One: If there is something bad about your bar on the internet, flex like a pottymouthed Chodorow! In case you have not heard the original Axl rant, treat yourself.  The rubber hits the road around  2:50.

A Black Sheep with scales?

It is not surprising that Chodorow had some suggestions about how to improve Bruni's review of Wild Salmon. I imagine the fox might have some ideas regarding henhouse security, but if someone has to get the difference between a journalist and a flack twisted, better to have it be a restaurateur than a flournalist. However, I am puzzled by the reference to the "Infamous Black Cod." Does the Cod have a shady relative, a Pacific cousin who is slinging yeyo, or perhaps robbing trains? Or does Chodorow think that "famous" and "infamous" are like "flammable" and "inflammable"?

Monday, 18 June 2001

The receipt pictured above is from a lunch the cinetrix enjoyed recently.

I enjoy being a Tupperware sales representative...

"Tupperware is a popular food storage solution. However, too often Tupperware parties are dreary heteronormative Christocentric occasions, leading to a crushing sense of ennui and crippling despair. We experimented with over seventy Tupperware party configurations before discovering that having the party hosted by a surfing Jewish lesbian folksinger last heard from in 1989 allowed us to deliver the product without crushing the souls of housewives."
(This is the way the world would be if Chris Kimball wrote press releases for Plastica, which is where none other than Phranc will be hosting a Tupperware party at Plastica in LA* on June 21st.) (Tip of the fin to CuzDan.)

*Not mad at this at all, but it does seem that there are places that need Tupperware alterity more than the 90048, where I imagine the most popular Tupperware alternative is sealing bowls with scraps of latex recycled from Von Teese photoshoots.

Trump Steaks!

Despite appearances to the contrary, the Cod is about uniting, not dividing. This is a blog that seeks to be the change it wishes to see in the world. With that in mind, something we can all agree on -- Trump Steaks =  Indisputable Besteverness.*

But it gets so much better. The innate topness of Trump Steaks would be enough on its own, but there is so much more -- the sweet melody of the phrase "available exclusively at the Sharper Image." It's like drinking from the Fountain of Youth. Trump's on the top of his game, making it easy for the kids at Spy. FYC are covering the Buzzcocks.  The Cod's lettering in track and still a brunette. Bob Stinson is alive. Bill Clinton is a  young governor from Arkansas with 8 years of presidentness in front of him. The Bruins play hockey in May. In the Garden.

Better still, the steak shilling touched off a cross-generational blowhard tycoon donnybrook. Trump disses Mark Cuban for putting too much pressure on his Mavericks, who made an inglorious first round exit after league-best regular season record, and Cuban fires back:

"I guess Donald is still upset that he can't afford to buy an NBA team. No doubt the cash requirements of more than $10,000 created a problem for him. Hopefully he will sell enough Trump Steaks, Trump Perfume and Trump Dolls to save some money and buy a team. Then we can see how he does. Until then he is a wannabe that needs to get a new spiel."

Diz-amm. The Boy Tycoon with the blog that goes boom here in the Oughts takes on the 80s icon of crapulence. It's like they brought back Time Pilot, instead of Tecmo  Bowl. Sometimes the Internet reminds you why it's good to be alive.

*Do not deny yourself a viewing of the special video message.

This Rice is Bananas

First Aunt Jemima gets a perm, and now this. Uncle Ben, erstwhile slave in a box, just got a big promotion. (Via TFS.) If your brand has a former slave as its icon, making him the imaginary CEO of the brand takes audacity chutzpah wicked sack. Make sure to spend some time clicking around the office. It will melt your brain.

Make your own funny

Michael Vick opens a restaurant. Seriously.

Today, Michel Foucault had a cheese sandwich

For those of you who find that you have an insatiable appetite for all things Chodorow, I commend this offering from LX TV, which is evidently some sort of broadband soft news outlet. (Think Naked News + Evening Magazine -Nudity -CBC.)  and you get the idea.) It is a two part interview with Chodorow, and worth a look. I found it hard to take seriously. Chodo's interlocutor rocks a Tyrolean kinderwhore look that is exactly what Amy Poehler would wear if this were actually an SNL digital short. Also, the giant bevs from the sponsor in the shot make the whole thing seem a little less than journalistical.

However, the tag they give Chodo recalled a line of inquiry I've been fussing with recently. Chodo is IDed as "mega- restaurateur and blogger Jeffrey Chodorow." The "when did you realize you were not just a restaurateur, but a mega-restaurateur?" line of inquiry is priceless, but Chodo's status as a blogger interests me more. In the wake of the food bloggers take over the world story last month, there was some discussion on the question of  "what is a blogger?" A sidebar to the food blog article ran under the heading "Among the many New York restaurant blogs, here are a few that are considered to be top-shelf by other food bloggers." It is a distinguished list. Some I've dined with, some I correspond with, some link to me, others used to link to me, some I'd never heard of. But  to suggest that Eater,  Grub Street, Restaurant Girl, NYC Nosh, Augieland, Midtown Lunch, The Amateur Gourmet, Serious Eats, Snack, The Strong Buzz, Gothamist Food, and Megnut are all in the same racket blogs is to push the term past the point of usefulness. This is by no means to suggest that saying "you, sir, are no blogger" Bentsen-stizz is some sort of a dis, but having a presence of some form on the internet is different from having a blog. In broad terms, certainly Eater and Grub Street, and sometimes Snack and Strong Buzz, are clearinghouses for information originating elsewhere, rather than producers of original content. Make no mistake -- these are useful sites that I check more often than 99.9% of the straightup food blogs, but it is something distinctly different from the individual, more or less diaristic approach of most blogs.

Further complicating the issue is the corporate blog, or Clog, as I uninfluentially dubbed it a while ago. A blog, like Chow, Grub St., or Diners Journal, that is an appendage of an entity publishing in a different medium, seems like an inherently different proposition than a standalone blog. Without his mega restaurant empire, Chodoblog would not exist, and would not make sense. The question is not so much if Chodorow is worthy of the esteemed title of "blogger"; instead, is it useful for us to think of what he writes as a blog? It seems like some other term might be useful as we navigate through the ever proliferating food-media jungle.

Chodo's back... tell a friend.

Update: Welcome Eaters, but don't believe everything you read over there. The Cod is delighted with Chodoblog's new posts.

Chodoblog comes to life, and delivers like Nelson Vails. There are other self-infatuated restaurant impressarios, but none with these kinds of blogging chops:

A post apologizing for not posting, worthy of Teachout himself.

A not-blind blind item fit  to make Gastropoda gnash her fangs with jealousy:

A very famous chef's father sent me one of his special cured hams from his incredible salumeria in Seattle; he was so happy about my letter.

For those of you playing along at home, this chef wears orange clogs, and his first name rhymes with Barrio!

Finally, what I imagine is intended as a rebuke, but comes off as a sort of dada koan:

  Frank's Food for Thought: Do boobs go better with steak than swords?

What kind of a cruel world is it that would make us choose between boobs and swords? Coming in Fall,  2007:  Xena Steakhouse. Let the healing begin!

Tropocopolitans

Gael Greene reviews the restaurant she was born to review, and delivers like she was driving a big brown truck:

Clearly, Hawaiian Tropic Zone is the consummate place for dinner to keep our guys happy that Sunday night of The Big Game. (Don’t ask me which game. There’s always a game.) Amazingly, it is not because our lithe, tattooed waitress in a few wisps of polyester from Nicole Miller dips in to do our bidding so adorably. That midriff. That tattoo. Only my gal pal and I are noticeably obsessed. Their “Y” chromosome eyes are glued to the plasma screen as a kitchen runner delivers the pupu platter of our pubescent memories—really good ribs, oddments of pork, deep-fried prawns, spring rolls, skewers, and more ($41 to feed four). “You guys still working on that?” our beach bunny asks. Okay, so we gals are just guys, too. It’s not just real estate and wide-screen playmates between the plasma screens that lifts this gambit above Hooters. It’s the ambitious food, unleashed from the imagination of star chef David Burke, so much better than it needs to be. Actually, it was almost fabulous the first time we came and Burke himself was at the range. Tonight, to be cruelly frank, the gargantuan crisp fried pork shank is sadly dry. But the veal chop is splendid and the chicken is not overcooked, always a plus. Happily, our guys are so distracted by the intense last-minute football play that my pal and I get to ravish the sensational banana split before they lift a spoon. The crunchy little candies lurking in the superior hot fudge are a real Burkesonian touch.

As I read this review for the first time I had the odd sense of rereading some famous passage from the hinterlands of the New Journalism, like "Frank Sinatra Has A Cold," + pupu platter, or Fear and Loathing + plasma screens, and the whole thing lightly edited by a not-actually-dead-just-locked-in the-attic Erma Bombeck. My favorite part of the review may be how it is actually very difficult to form any impression of the food.
Sometimes, it is much better than Hooters, but can fall short of that mark. In all, not much to dissuade me from  suggesting that sneaking a couple of bahn mi into Scores would not be a better bet.

Chodorow does not know karate

But to say he knows Car-azy would be a profound understatement. When a soon-to-exit critic bagels your rather vulgar take on the steakhouse, what do you do? Remove swords from the ceiling? Tweak the menu? Perhaps, but that's the difference between little minds like yours and geniuses like Jefferey Chodorow. A real man of genius responds to a pan with a long and rambling memo, which he publishes as a full page ad in DI/DO. To glean highlights would be like taking a scissors to Gravity's Rainbow. Treat yourself and read the whole thing. You will agree that you cannot say that this shit is B-A-N--A-N-A-S, but must instead conjure a new fruit, a spangled,  boomerang-shaped durian, coated with Krazy Glue, being sung about by Gwen Stefani, Courtney Love, Whitney Houston while they are in the middle of a week-long meth and mezcal binge on Slash's yacht, which is anchored off the coast of Albania. That's how crazy this stuff is.