THE GURGLING COD

Sifton Soundtracks: Craft, b/w Little Village "Solar Sex Panel"

So, Sifton Soundtracks are back from vacation. Today, Sifton drops a trey on Craft, the same it got back in the day from Grimes. It's an oddly uncompelling three star review. It was good back in the day. Still good now.

"There is no overt theatricality to the food at Craft. Its presentation is simple, even plain. But such simplicity belies a truth about the restaurant’s cooking. There can be no hiding behind artifice. No lipstick is available for the pigs."

and

"The philosophy of Craft is craft."

It sounds like a nice place to eat, but not much fun to review -- describing the atmosphere, Sifton hints that Craft is like a really great Cialis commercial:

The restaurant retains the same masculine-minimalist aesthetic it had when it opened, with a constellation of Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling, and surfaces made of concrete and leather, terra cotta and unprocessed steel. (The soundtrack, as at all of Mr. Colicchio’s restaurants, runs to dad-rock classics and NPR-approved alternative country.*)

That's not the kind of endorsement that has one pitching a tent on the sidewalk on 19th St., but it does help the soundtrack question. (Beetubs, it's impressive that Craft kept bring Craft while Tom Coliccio became Tom Coliccio.) We've made fun of Colicchio  "jamming" with his "axe" now and again, but it's clear, based on Sifton's indictment of the tunes, that the appropriate Sifton Soundtrack comes from a supergroup you've never heard of. Play us off, Little Village! 

*The only cure for NPR-approved alternative country is listening to the entire Onyx discography through these:

Sifton Soundtracks: Bar Basque b/w Huey Lewis & The News, "Hip to be Square"

Anchower, Sifton Soundtrackswise, I know. A DM exchange with the man himself has egged the Cod back into his self-appointed, yet sadly neglected task of sharing appropriate music to listen to while you read Sifton's restaurant review. With Bar Basque, Sifton makes it easy on the Cod, if tough on himself. He drops an uno on Bar Basque. Bar Basque is a Chodorow jawn, and longtime Cod readers will remember that Chodorow is fucking crazy. Dude took out a full page ad in DI/DO  to respond to Bruni's pan of his samurai steakhouse. Chodorow would seem to be for the restaurant critics what the student you enjoy hearing stories about, but hope you won't end up having to teach is for fessers. (Aside to grassoppers -- this never happens.) 

In any case, Sifton digs the chow:

Served after a platter of acorn-fed, free-range Iberico ham — an amazing flavor, nutty, elegant and rare — it makes for fine eating. Coming after that and a pile of sweet razor clams bathed in olive oil and wine, with a glass of greenish-gold Verdejo, cool and honeyed with spiciness well suited to the garlic and richness that stands up to the fish, then it is something quite a bit more. It is a refined taste of the Basque country in a city that has never properly embraced that pleasure.

However, Sifton does not dig the vibe: 

Bar Basque is a strange, glass-walled and tube-shaped spaceship on the second floor of the new Eventi Hotel in Chelsea, with a view of a jumbo television screen across the alley park behind it. Red and black and clattery, with a substantial, low-seating lounge area that vibrates with dinkadinkadinka club music and the repressed desire of hotel guests traveling with hard-body work associates, it could appear in a sequel to Bret Easton Ellis’s “American Psycho.”

Hard-body work associates? Anyway, no need for "dinkadiknkadinka club music," (does Sifton have a bootleg of the long-lost Paul Anka dubstep project?) The American Psycho nod makes the soundtrack automatic, thanks to this scene. (You can watch it here, if axmurdering yuppies are S for your W. Chodorow and Huey Lewis -- what could possibly go wrong: 

 

This sh*t is bannanies!

Words failed me w/r/t the whole have your nanny cover your shift at the Park Slope Co-op thing. And then it got even better! Why have a stuffy old nanny cover your shift when you could send a teen with a cute accent for pennies on the dollar! Watson might be good at Jeopardy, but the bots still have some things to learn about context sensitive advertising. 

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.

Toxic Bitches

Now and again something pops up in the news or in the tubes that inspires paralysis. The systolic dudgeon is up around 180, but the thought of re-reading the offending piece, posting on it and moving on is unpalatable because it would involve re-reading the thing that got me pissed in the first place. I'd missed out on the Skinny Bitch phenomenon until it popped up in the DI/DO, but my luck ran out on Wednesday. What nobody seems to have pointed out is that these women (not gonna abet their brand by calling them names) are the Dov Charney of the food world. Like the American Apparel founder, these women are promoting positive social values (in the food industry, rather than textiles) using a reprehensible philosophy of gender and sexuality. Actually, the waif taint iconography Charney uses to push panties is probably healthier than the worldview coming out of SBITK:

“You know how you feel when a tall, thin, pretty woman walks by and something inside you wants to say, ‘That skinny bitch!’?” said Ms. Barnouin, who happens to be tall, thin and pretty. “The book takes that envy and anger and gives you a new place to put it.”

The world needs more of this shit (hollerin atcha, US weekly and imitators), like it needs more pan-Asian restaurants. I am not going to plough deeply into SB bibliography, but getting women to buy shit by making them feel shitty is the oldest trick in the book.  I don't see how wanting to get skinny so other women will not like you is an improvement over wanting to get skinny so men will like you. According to a t-shirt for sale at an alumnae reunion I crashed recently, my girl Madeline Albright says "There is a special place in hell for women who refuse to help each other." A self help industry with a foundation based on making women feel like shit suggests that there's a warm spot waiting for these women. In all, further evidence that being a vegan may make you stupid.

As a palate cleanser, the kind of Toxic that is good for you (contains swearing, and some weird stuff about Muppets) Hope Asgard is treating you well, ODB.

I know.

*Charney is probably ahead of the game here, as not having textiles made by eight year olds in China is a clearer social plus than heeding edicts of an alumna of an "unaccredited school for alternative health"

Guns and Roses and Brooklyn Inn

Last spring, I read Danny Meyer's book, Setting the Table. I usually shy away from the business self-help genre, but I needed something to read, and I found it oddly compelling. Meyer makes a persuasive case  for relentless, ruthlessly focused customer service as the hallmark of his success. There is something a bit koolaidy about the whole thing, but over the next few months, I frequently found myself thinking, as a barista rolled his eyes and charges me a nickel for a glass for water after I've just paid three dollars for an iced coffee, that "that would go down differently at a USHG  spot." If my most sustained interaction with a Meyer employee -- a lunch at 11 Madison Park, where the sommelier took good care -- is any indication, Meyer gets his employees to practice what he preaches. But over in Brooklyn, Jason Furlani, proprietor of the Brooklyn Inn, is taking his cues from the Axl Rose School of Media Relations, checking in with Eater thus:

Here's a news-flash, jackass - yes, we raised some prices (ONLY on premium liquor - not beer, wine, or otherwise) to standards comparable with the NEIGHBORHOOD - not Manhattan or the "gastro-pub" frat-boy places some individuals speculated the place would be. Yes, we are looking for more creative ways to provide seating WITHOUT removing the pool table. And finally, YES, we're fucking there to stay. And I gotta tell you, as a long-time Brooklynite myself - all this bullshit from the faceless bloggers is simply proof that YOU ain't about Brooklyn - you're bullshit. So fuck off. If "you" or anyone doesn't like something about the Inn - here's a little free advice... DON'T FUCKING DRINK THERE!

Lesson One: If there is something bad about your bar on the internet, flex like a pottymouthed Chodorow! In case you have not heard the original Axl rant, treat yourself.  The rubber hits the road around  2:50.

A Black Sheep with scales?

It is not surprising that Chodorow had some suggestions about how to improve Bruni's review of Wild Salmon. I imagine the fox might have some ideas regarding henhouse security, but if someone has to get the difference between a journalist and a flack twisted, better to have it be a restaurateur than a flournalist. However, I am puzzled by the reference to the "Infamous Black Cod." Does the Cod have a shady relative, a Pacific cousin who is slinging yeyo, or perhaps robbing trains? Or does Chodorow think that "famous" and "infamous" are like "flammable" and "inflammable"?

Monday, 18 June 2001

The receipt pictured above is from a lunch the cinetrix enjoyed recently.

I enjoy being a Tupperware sales representative...

"Tupperware is a popular food storage solution. However, too often Tupperware parties are dreary heteronormative Christocentric occasions, leading to a crushing sense of ennui and crippling despair. We experimented with over seventy Tupperware party configurations before discovering that having the party hosted by a surfing Jewish lesbian folksinger last heard from in 1989 allowed us to deliver the product without crushing the souls of housewives."
(This is the way the world would be if Chris Kimball wrote press releases for Plastica, which is where none other than Phranc will be hosting a Tupperware party at Plastica in LA* on June 21st.) (Tip of the fin to CuzDan.)

*Not mad at this at all, but it does seem that there are places that need Tupperware alterity more than the 90048, where I imagine the most popular Tupperware alternative is sealing bowls with scraps of latex recycled from Von Teese photoshoots.

Trump Steaks!

Despite appearances to the contrary, the Cod is about uniting, not dividing. This is a blog that seeks to be the change it wishes to see in the world. With that in mind, something we can all agree on -- Trump Steaks =  Indisputable Besteverness.*

But it gets so much better. The innate topness of Trump Steaks would be enough on its own, but there is so much more -- the sweet melody of the phrase "available exclusively at the Sharper Image." It's like drinking from the Fountain of Youth. Trump's on the top of his game, making it easy for the kids at Spy. FYC are covering the Buzzcocks.  The Cod's lettering in track and still a brunette. Bob Stinson is alive. Bill Clinton is a  young governor from Arkansas with 8 years of presidentness in front of him. The Bruins play hockey in May. In the Garden.

Better still, the steak shilling touched off a cross-generational blowhard tycoon donnybrook. Trump disses Mark Cuban for putting too much pressure on his Mavericks, who made an inglorious first round exit after league-best regular season record, and Cuban fires back:

"I guess Donald is still upset that he can't afford to buy an NBA team. No doubt the cash requirements of more than $10,000 created a problem for him. Hopefully he will sell enough Trump Steaks, Trump Perfume and Trump Dolls to save some money and buy a team. Then we can see how he does. Until then he is a wannabe that needs to get a new spiel."

Diz-amm. The Boy Tycoon with the blog that goes boom here in the Oughts takes on the 80s icon of crapulence. It's like they brought back Time Pilot, instead of Tecmo  Bowl. Sometimes the Internet reminds you why it's good to be alive.

*Do not deny yourself a viewing of the special video message.