THE GURGLING COD

Meatopia as in #Meatopia

That's Utopia scribe St. Thomas More holding a rib, contemplating this Sunday's Meatopia, on Governor's Island. The Meatopians have graciously invited The Gurgling Cod to be a celebrity judge, showing a clearer grasp of generosity than the meaning of celebrity.  If you are there, do say hello. To distinguish myself from the many, many other stocky thirtyfortysomething dudes likely to be there,  I will be wearing a t-shirt bearing the logo of our gracious hosts, Rick's Picks. Thanks as always to Penny Pascal for the Peerless Photoshopping. Btubs, Ms. P will be taking Manhattan like a brainy Muppet as of Aug 1, so fix up, look sharp.

Sifton Soundtracks: Kenmare, b/w The Specials, Nite Club

Sifton won't dance,

In a club like this,

All the girls are sluts*

And the overpriced cocktails taste just like piss.

It's a huevo de gallina for Kenmare from Sifton. The Cod's visit there was pleasanter than Sifton's but it was very quiet when I was in. Given that the concept seemed to be simple things done fussily, I can easily imagine that The Chicken or the fries could fall off steeply in a busier kitchen.  The sceneyness of the scene does allow Sifton to unleash his Walter Mitty fantasy that he lives in Brooklyn and is named Jonathan, or at least is a Holden Caulfield manque, all growed up:

The dining room is pretty enough, dark and cool, with white marble tables and a vaguely Mediterranean feel enhanced by big sprays of flowers. It is crowded nightly, first with dinner parties that seem pulled from rejected “Sex and the City” scripts and then with a late, late, late show of models and people with incredible collections of music and sneakers and phone numbers, accompanied by the people who went to college with them who now work on Wall Street.

Yeah. Even when Sifton tries to talk about the food, he gets distracted by the room:

Even more appropriate to the crowd and the space, and what look like the restaurant’s best overall seller after the sliders, are French fries. They are served under a thick ooze of Cheddar and salty, wan giblet gravy. You can pick at these for a long time, drinking prosecco and doing red-carpet analysis of this one’s tight dress or that one’s unfortunate hair, laughing gaily until someone remembers how great it was to smoke, and the whole conversation goes nostalgic and sullen.

If I were part of Team Kenmare, I would probably be muttering something about how there are plenty of restaurants for older and less attractive people, and Sifton's indictment does carry a hint of outsiderishness:

Not that many people are actually eating, though. There are enough pretty young things and the people who chase them at Kenmare to recall Bret Easton Ellis novels, Scissor Sisters songs and the whole first season of HBO’s “How to Make it in America.” The incessant rumbling of the nearby Lexington Avenue subway vibrates up into a table-hoppy, air-kissing, haven’t-seen-you-since-Quogue bubble of nighttime excitement.

http://events.nytimes.com/2010/07/07/dining/reviews/07rest.html?ref=dining&pagewanted=all

Kenmare makes it easy for Sifton; Sifton makes it easy for the Cod:

*Used here in the connotation of "attractive women to whom you appear to be invisible."

Hey, Baby....

It's the 4th of July. Bricks and mortar and flesh and blood and heart and soul push the pixels to one side on this weekend, but God bless us all, and do not hold in hand - light fuse and get away.

If you do not get weepy reading about the special bird rescuing boats, I don't want to know you. Have a good weekend.