THE GURGLING COD

Pat Bruno is full of shit

Following the kerfuffle about the Chicago restaurant critic who went on TV using his real name, the critic fired back with a response:
Helen: thanks so much for the publicity re my appearance on the Flay Throwdown. And, of course, bringing it to the attention of one and all at the Sun-Times. Keep that blog mill churning.
Of course, practically everyone in the restaurant business knows what Phil Vettel and Penny Pollack and Dennis Wheaton look like. And, too, a few restaurant owners know what I look like--after all, at one time I had a cooking school here in Chicago, and also owned a chain of cookware stores and some of my best customers were chefs and restaurant owners.
Actually, the person you see on the video is me, but not really me. I was wearing a very clever disguise to, of course, protect my anonymity. Study the video carefully. Then should it happen that Pat and Helen are dining at same restaurant, try and pick me out of the crowd. If you can, dinner is on me. But what difference does it make should I be recognized? Will the restaurant in question suddenly, like magic, put out better quality food? Will inept service suddenly become "ept?" Nah. On the other hand, I can count on one hand the number of times I have been "made" while reviewing a restaurant. Methinks you have brought up a tempest in a crockpot. But then it takes a lot of gossip to fill up a blog.* Keep up the good work. [all emphasis added]

To summarize: 
    1) Everyone already knows what I look like.
    2) I was wearing a disguise.
    3) It does not matter if people know what I look like.
You simply cannot make all of these arguments. Any one of them on its own is bullshit, and easily refuted on its own terms, but to advance them simultaneously is to demonstrate a contempt for readers, the press, and the language, so contradictory are they.
*Bonus bloggers off my lawn swipe from someone working in an industry only slightly more viable than the US whaling industry gets the early nod for the January Bissinger Prize.

The Day of the Locust

A lede, or a cry for help, from the WSJ's Ramond Sokolov?

Political commentators are busy analyzing and psychoanalyzing the presidential candidates' words for hints about the real Barack Obama and John McCain. We gastronomers have a better way of penetrating the campaign spin. We take the time-honored approach of that proto-food-blogger Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755-1826), who said: "Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are."

Either Sokolov is protesting Murdoch's takeover of the WSJ through the canny subterfuge of writing the tritest ledes imaginable, or this this is his way of reaching out, of saying that he's tired of writing about food. If this copy landed on my desk, I'd check to make sure the author hadn't hung himself from a light fixture in his office.

Also, Obama's endorsement of Topolobampo, in 2008, has me clicking over to read up on the Libertarian candidate for president. This place was always overhyped, and my two experiences eating there suggested that it stopped being relevant about the time that Horace Grant left the Bulls. I suppose Alinea would not help with the whole "effete" thing, but a candidate who is about hope and change should be able to come up with a more cromulent answer than a long-in-the-tooth haute Mexican joint.

New Years Resolution

A resolution I propose for restaurant servers for 2008, precipitated by a recent visit to the Powerhouse in Chicago:

Unless they give evidence otherwise, assume your patrons can a) read, and b) are capable of making gustatory decisions. In other words, do not walk them through the menu and share your favorites. The shorter the menu and the fancier the restaurant, the more important these principles become. Faced with a menu like the one at Powerhouse in Chicago, it looked similar to but not exactly like this one in Zagat's, (the actual prices are a dollar or two higher than this) it is disconcerting to have a waiter spend several minutes giving a spiel on the restaurant's philosophy,* and then pointing out the especially the strong selections on the menu.* With only 3-4 entrees in each section, all hovering around the 30 dollar mark, they ought all to be worth ordering, right? (Where this kind of service would be helpful is at the drunky late-night Greek diner with the laminated,  12-page, slightly sticky menu -- the vast majority is what they do is eggs, but mysteriously, there is a page of things like chicken Cordon Bleu. A diner concierge who would look at you with sad eyes and say "sir, I cannot recommend the beef Stroganoff" would be a boon.)

The meal itself was ok. The romaine/quail/Nueske's bacon salad was fantastic. The short ribs were decently executed, but uncompelling in their presentation. After the zeal to narrate the menu, the service was friendly, but deliberate to the point where the meal extented to a duration members of the party were invoking tantric liaisons with Sting.***

A possibly tendentious explanation, based on limited data -- In my experience, what constitutes appropriate service at fancy restaurants in the Midwest tends to be almost oppressively high-touch, in that there seems to be an impetus to remind you that you are having a Classy Experience. I'm sure that there are spots I've not been to that transcend this regional norm, (college in St. Louis and grad school in Chicago did not permit me to run with the Trotters consistently), but it does seem the notion of what constitutes good service in a white tablecloth place varies regionally. I'd welcome input from those who dine between the coasts, or rebukes or rebuttals from anyone.

*They work with farmers who are -- wait for it -- local!
**Not surprisingly, the picks tended to be towards the pricier part of the spectrum. If the waiter had said that the lobster risotto app sucked, I would have kissed him on the mouth.