THE GURGLING COD

Brand management

Like sailors, the managers of men's lifestyle brands have sayings. One of the most important is:

"Steak before pee, fine with me,
Pee before steak, big mistake."

Not all crazy gambles pay off. At some point in the 90s, seeing his brand eroded by increasingly gynecological content in Playboy, not to mention the general pornification of culture, Bob Guccione decided to take his flagship magazine in  a bold new direction. With a focus group evidently consisting of Isaac Pierce Knightley, and Isidore Preston Daley, Penthouse charted a bold course -- what IHOP was to pancakes, they would be to images of women urinating. (SFW). Fine, except for how Guccione overestimated the extent that his readers appreciated such content, and sales plummeted. The logical next step after you have hired models to soak your brand with urine? Opening a steak house! There's more than one way to make bearnaise, but I still think allowing restaurants and strip clubs each to focus on their core competencies makes sense.

And what puts The Penthouse Executive Club on the radar? Bruni's front page DI/DO review! Don't count the Count out. For a food critic, reviewing any restaurant offering a dessert called a buttery nipple* is the equivalent of cleaning fish at your desk, Office Space stizz.

*Not attached to Paula  Deen, though her road to recovery was paved with the stuff.

In 2008-- the Baudrillard Steakhouse!

As a respite from the cares of the day, the Cod and the cinetrix will sometimes discuss their imaginary restaurant empire.* The flagship is called Gout, there is an all-offal place in Kenmore Sq called Foul Territory, etc.

However, the line between the simulated restaurant  and the real one is getting blurry. In 05-06, a gonfalon of hype for Sascha devolved to an actual restaurant with a very brief lifespan. Now in 2007, at least in Williamsburg, opening seems almost beside the point. Witness the heralded Silent H.** With a menu like this, who needs to serve food?*** (You click on the airmail stamps to see dinner and lunch.) Now building on the momentum of not serving pho, Silent H is not serving food at all! I hope that in the years to come, we can see the restaurant existing as pure concept, freed of the pedestrian impediments of patrons and food.

*Someone should invent a game, a la Rail Baron, where you can scrap for those stars from Bib down home in  Provence, and then race to be the first player to open a steakhouse in a casino. There could even be a card that was all like, "Your line cook has hepatitis A: Lose a turn."
**Given the trouble the roundeyes, this one included, have with pronouncing Vietnamese words, "Silent H" is a brilliant name. However, the way it is styled on the website frequently makes it look like "Silenth," which sounds like what one of the performers of the French Mistake at the end of Blazing Saddles might say, or perhaps the Staten Island Fairy.
***Ingredients and execution make a difference, but actually the menu looks a lot like what I used to see at Vietnamese joints in Algiers in the mid 90s, the bahn mi very much like what I'd grab to eat on the Fung Wah, albeit with a Billyburg premium!

UPDATE: The lads at EDSBS reveal the chilling depths of the Puck/Hep A story. It's Sterger's world, we just live in it.

Where's Bruni?

Via TFS, the latest Chodogate news, splashed on Page Six:

February 27, 2007 -- RESTAURANT mogul Jeffrey Chodorow has put out an all-points alert on the Times' food critic. "Frank Bruni is banned from all my [29] restaurants," he told The Post's Braden Keil. "I'm telling my staff that the first person to recognize Bruni at any of my restaurants will be given a free trip for two to the Caribbean." The Kobe Club owner, who bought a full-page ad in the Times blasting Bruni over a zero-star review, will also post Bruni's photo on his Web site.

As of right now, if there is any justice in the world, Jules is at home, knitting a red and white cap and sweater for Frank along the lines of the one pictured at right. That said, some more granularity on the trip would be nice--Guantanamo is in the Caribbean, after all.

Print culture

Busy day. There are some musings on cookbooks over to Salon if you get tired of playing Kitten War. It seems like it might be possible to push this inquiry a little further, and use the kitchen as a place to think about print culture vs. digital culture, and the different epistemes they produce or reflect.* There have been some small gestures in that direction here, but it might be fun to try something more systematic.
*Also, for reasons I can't quite explain, cooking seems to be one of the few areas where there is still a viable scribal culture. Few folks these days circulate their poems in longhand among friends, Bradstreet stizz, but for cooks of a certain age, receipt cards remain the coin of the realm, so it might be interesting to invite Harold Love to your next potluck.

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.

Sisters are doing it to themselves

A few possibly related items, more sanctimonious than usual, as my apology for the many, many users of Google who came to the Cod over the weekend looking for Oscar picks and were dismayed by what they found.

1) A visit to Durham, NC, and Duke University, aka "The Niman Ranch of American Higher Education" reveals not only that Fowler's is closed but also the spectacle of a female undergrad ordering coffee at Foster's wearing nothing but Uggs, tights, and, wait for it, a Duke Lacrosse T-shirt. Evidently, the Kobe jersey and the Augusta National polo were at the cleaners.

2) Sunday's Times details how the Depauw chapter Delta Zeta shitcanned some of the heavier, less white sisters  and brought in fembots from Indiana U* to do rush by proxy. 

3) Meanwhile, Jane Magazine, Sassy's redheaded stepchild, is pitching the likes of the Cod on their "hilarious reataurant prank":

Hi!
There is a hilarious restaurant prank in the March issue of JANE, on stands nationwide on the 27^th!  I have attached the story and the March cover in case you were interested in doing anything with this.  If so, please link back to JANE’s website, www.janemag.com. Thanks!
Let me know if you have any questions.
Thank you!

The prank consists of calling in for reservations in the name of  dead celebrities.** On my to do list for the day is booking a table at Del Posto this Friday at 8 as Mr. Feminism.

* I know.

** A valuable, but undetermined prize for anyone furnishing a recording of a two or three Michelin starred chef responding to the "is your refrigerator running" prank call.

Odds and Ends

Oscar nonsense, Chodogate, and the demands of my actual job have kept me from spending the kind of time I ought to perusing the internets. But Spencer has been more diligent, turning up not only Tea Birds, but also Women with Wine. I can't quite figure out why these seem not just creepy, but Crispin creepy -- my reaction is to comment that the perverts looking at the site should stop it and look at some nice, wholesome Helmut Newton pictures. Not to get all Sontaggy, but at least the women hanging around Chateau Marmont in heels know that they are being photographed for prurient reasons. The images here, for the most part, seem to be candids that happen to include women drinking tea or wine, subsequently appropriated for purposes I hardly dare to imagine. These blogs are like one of those times where you find one of those notebooks full of nothing but pictures of feet pasted in on the subway.
Elsewhere, Ruth Reichl perhaps needs to slide Live and Let Die into her Netflix queue.
The sinister French Quarter waiters in this bestever Bond do the same thing to 007 that happened to Reichl's friend:

Bond: "Good afternoon, bourbon and water please."
                Bartender: "First booth will do."
                Bond: "Tell him neat, will you."
                Waiter: "Huh?"
                Bond: "No ice."
                Waiter: "That's extra, man!"

No word on any subsequent attempts to abduct Reichl using the ruse of a fake jazz funeral. (Via TFS)

2007 Oscar Picks: Best Actress

We wrap up our Oscars preview with some delicious distaff dishes, just in time for you to hustle to the market and get cooking!
Penelope Cruz, Volver: This Iberian enchantress does not require fancy sauces to wow your guests! Why not try panfried medallions, garnished with capers, and for a special treat, a wrapping of Jamon Iberico!
Judi Dench, Notes on a Scandal:
Helen Mirren, The Queen:
Meryl Streep, The Devil Wears Prada:
Stop the presses! Man bites dog! Hollywood recognizes existence of women over 20! It's  exciting to see Oscar honor these dames (literally, in Judi's case!), but it will require some resourcefulness in the kitchen. Rather than working separately, let these three join forces in a hearty bolito misto! (As an accompaniment, fresh horseradish is a real difference-maker!)
Kate Winslet, Little Children: Hollywood's most reliable young performer is also one of its most delicious! It's hard to go wrong with this versatile star, but why not "think outside the box" and have your guests make their own Winslet fajitas! Less work for you, more fun for your guests!

That's all for this year! See you on the red carpet!

2007 Oscar Picks: Best Actor

We'll keep the Oscar fun rolling along as we ease on into the mains!
Leonardo DiCaprio, The Departed: Few young actors are more versatile than this former teen hearthrob. As the Oscar nod tells us, Leo is all grown up, and ready to please a crowd. If you have a good butcher, consider a saddle of DiCaprio with a rosemary/balsamic glaze!
Ryan Gosling, Half Nelson: Don't be fooled by the name -- this Gosling has no feathers or beak! Instead roast chopsof  this sadeyed heartbreaker paired with a muscular Italian red!
Peter O'Toole, Venus: Always Orrins in our hearts, but this blue eyed devil should only be prepared by trained chefs. His gallbladder contains a potent neurotoxin!
Will Smith, The Pursuit of Happyness: Despite the "Fresh Prince" moniker, Jazzy Jeff's sidekick actually gets better with age! Rinse Will thoroughly, pat dry, sprinkle with Maldon salt and let stand in your fridge 2-3 days before serving with new potatoes and a blood orange gastrique!
Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland: This Ghost Dog is perfect for a crowd, but Idi's size can be daunting! Rather than playing the Crying Game, grill out! For a delicious twist, grill over mesquite, or grate dried chipotles on top before serving!

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.