THE GURGLING COD

Stars -- they're just like us

There are lots of things the Cod would enjoy about being famous -- the breezing into Per Se sans reservation, the free clothes, the jaunts to Sundance, etcetera, etcetera. Best of all, though, would be the having Mario Batali available to quash rumors of my pregnancy.

Plaid Longjohns - Special MLK edition.

A big Gurgling Cod salute to a patriot, and the Patriots. To cover both, and suggest that not every denizen of TLOTB&TC is not a straight-up racist, we feature a forgotten late punk tribute to MLK, courtesy of Last Stand.* Not so much of this kind of thing any more. Also not so many white rock bands with horn sections, or R&B tunes with guitar solos. Who knew the 80s would seem like a time of racial harmony?
Last Stand_"On  This_Day_in_History"
Oddly enough, for both the aforementioned patriot, and the Patriots, it's all about Arizona.

A bullshit sundae

With so much to celebrate, a shame to roll out the Guiteau Monday category, but now and again the effedupness of something warrants a post, even if it impinges on crucial porch time. Gus Rancatore, owner of Toscanini's Ice Cream, or someone on his behalf, has started a website to raise money to "save"  his business, which was seized for tax delinquency. It is good ice cream, but it is a business, rather than, say a shelter for battered women, a school, or free health clinic. Supporting local businesses means exchanging money for goods and services that they provide, not giving them money when they fuck up their taxes. I'd be sad to see it go, but Cristina's Ice Cream  is an easy walk.

Snuffallophagy

I was glad to see an article about the Jamie Oliver chicken business in the DI/DO yesterday. Inevitably, it has a degree of stunt to it, and lotsa p to the r for Jamie, but for all that, I think well worth doing. In a variation on "if you can't do the time, don't do the crime" we need something like "if you can't slit the throat, you can't eat the goat." I am an unapologetic meat eater, but I try to be mindful about my meat. When so much of the food industry works to obfuscate where meat comes from, this, and the slaughtering photos at the beginning of the River Cottage meat book, are important reminders. However, a phrase in Moskin's lede suggests she didn't get it:

LAST Friday, in front of 4 million television viewers and a studio audience, the chef Jamie Oliver killed a chicken. Having recently obtained a United Kingdom slaughterman’s license, Mr. Oliver staged a “gala dinner,” in fact a kind of avian snuff film, to awaken British consumers to the high costs of cheap chicken.

Surely, Moskin does not mean "snuff film," unless she feels that Oliver killed the chicken on camera to titillate his viewers.
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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.

Silent Cooking

The cinetrix insists I share this with codland:

No commentary. A soundtrack that sounds like Lionel Hampton's retarded grandniece playing along with an Andrew Blake soundtrack. Wordless vocals from a retired Sex-o-Lette. The Germans have so much to teach us. And by "us," I mean "the Food Network."

Playing your food

Cycling unAnchower, but I keep trying to leave, and the tubes keep pulling me in. Courtesy of Jane alum, and NFL prognosticator extraordinaire, Jeff Johnson, the big broccoli ocarina:

Let them eat corn

TFS reports:

Under House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's leadership, Capitol Hill cafeterias have undergone a green, gourmet revolution: Jell-O has been replaced with raspberry kiwi tarts, meatloaf has been replaced with mahi mahi, and disposable utensils have made way for cutlery made from corn starch and compostable straws.

How nice for the congressional people! As they say, win a few, lose a few.

My Beefscape brings all the boys to the yard

A new ad campaign from the National Cattlemens' Association is taking the peculiar tack of combining surreal visuals with a name that's as gay as all outdoors. Ladies and gentlemen, Beefscapes*:

*If nothing else, "beefscape" does finally offer the hitherto elusive word to describe the experience of watching 300.  (Via Chow.)

The stain on my notebook...

Evidently, the Royalton Hotel is not far from the Circle K, because strange things are afoot:

Waiters at Brasserie 44 at the Royalton Hotel thought they'd made the catch of the day last week when they found a mystery diner's notebook. When they peeked inside to determine the owner, they realized it could only belong to a restaurant critic. What's more, the notes were so sophisticated, they reasoned it must belong to Frank Bruni, culinary arbiter of The New York Times. Was it forks up or forks down for the W. 44 St. boite, which reopened after a renovation with new chef Scott Ekstrom? Forks up, though food and beverage manager John Cassanos tells us, "I thought it would be a great idea for a play, to have a restaurateur murder a critic before the review comes out." The notebook, it turned out, belonged to another critic. Cassanos, not looking for Bruni points, sincerely said he would have recognized the newly buff Bruni: "He lost weight. He looks good!"

If there is a Hickock Belt for PR wizardry, whomever is repping 44 is the early favorite for 08. This would be such an easy stunt to pull that it could hardly be true:
1) Send the busboy out for a Moleskine.
2) Get a server to scribble food things in it while their  colleagues are marrying the ketchups and such.
3) Toss the notebook on a banquette.
4) Find notebook. Report that notes are so sophisticated, they could only flow from the pen of Frank Bruni.
5) After the exciting news appears, mention that it was actually a different critic, evidently one with no name.

For the cost of a notebook, and an hour or so stolen from sidework, a bona fide gossip piece about your restaurant in the Daily News-- or so it seems. The genius touch is the weight loss, which makes the story undeniable, as an "it wasn't me" from Bruni would have to come out and admit that he'd spent the holiday  watching one ANTM  marathon after another,  gorging on Werther's Originals, and currently could wear only sweatpants. Well played, Brasserie 44, well played indeed.