Tha Cuoz & The Cod -- brothers in arms

Steve Cuzzo, food critic for the print flagship of the Murdochocracy* takes time out to rail against something I am fond of railing against, which is the idea that a culinary education teaches you how to separate signifiers and signifieds -- in other words, serve what you like, call it what you like, and caveat emptor:

Terms that once meant something barely hint at what the kitchen is up to. I’ve had boiled rice described as “risotto” and dry shellfish masquerading as “bouillabaisse.” A “Caesar salad” can mean anything with leaves and cheese. Places still blatantly list “Kobe” beef even when it’s inferior American Wagyu.

It is worth noting that there are several kinds of bullshit going on here. 1) There are words deployed inaccurately because they sound cool, like "risotto." 2) There are words that become magnets for imprecision like Caesar Salad. (See as always, Heidi Pollock's Might essay on the devolution of this term.) But these two habits of mind clear the way for the third, which is out-and-out untruths. Unfortunately, more of these lies are becoming laws, as in the Camembert story in DI/DO last week, and the recent push to expand the list of non-organic organics, fomented by clownshoes like John Foraker, CEO of Annie's Homegrown:

"Organic annatto is not readily available and does not deliver the same cheese color. Making orange colored macaroni and cheese is an important element of our offering. Without annatto, our macaroni-and-cheese products would be white"**

The mind fucking reels, but whatevs. I guess "possibly marginally better for you than Kraft" did not test well as the new slogan, so they are sticking with the organic shtick. But I digress. Tha Cuoz also details a completely different semantic breakdown:

Certain other menus assume too much knowledge on the customer’s part. If you spend much time at Vietnamese snack bars - virtually nonexistent in New York - you’ll know that banh mi of braised pork is a sandwich.
If not, you’ll be surprised when you order it at delightful French-colonial FR.OG on Spring Street, where it’s listed under “lunch plates.”
Denizens of “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” country might know “tequila sunrise salad” at new ribs joint Hill Country is neither liquor nor salad, but something like orange Jell-O. Because it’s buffet service, at least you get to see it first.

If you are expecting something else, and complain about a sandwich, that's the diner's fault for not asking. This question of "assuming too much knowledge on the customer's part" is tricky It don't get much more "French-colonial"than Viet cold cuts on a baguette, and it would seem reasonable to presume patrons would know that. However, presuming too little knowledge on the part of diners can be fatal. If the menu at Esquina had one of those little charts that says Burrito: Pronounced Buh-ree-toe - a flour tortilla, etc.... the effect would be ruined. I'll leave the Texas Chainsaw Massacre thing to one side, but the question of what must be explained/translated and what must not is an interesting one. Who is obliged to explain what to whom? Certainly, if this denizen ordred an egg cream, she would be expected to know it contained neither. But does a ribs joint need to explain to New Yorkers that salad can mean many many things, some of which involve Jell-O, rather than mizuna?

*The NYT article is worth reading -- it's like one of those crazy rants about the various conspiracies to control the media, except it's true.

**Confidential to Parents -- if your kids think cheese is orange,  you've fucked up.

Comments

[Saratoga Slim]

This bullshit all started with overzealous adjective use. Would that Hemingway could write a fucking menu description every now and again instead of everything so goddamn Bill Faulkner, even at the local pub.

And don't start me to talkin bout "martini" becoming synomymous with *anything* served up in non-wine stemware. In my book, fruit in a martini is limited only to distilled juniper berries, thank you very much. Served ice cold with a passing wave of vermouth -- and an olive, motherfucker.

[coach wallets]

Happiness is them most precious thing in life. Without it, a man will feel that his ill fate has taken charge him and the world is utterly dark and dreadful.