THE GURGLING COD

Frank Bruni: murderesses and strippers, oh my!

So, while "Didn't have to read no Bruni" would be a line in the Cod's reboot of "It was a Good Day," we noticed folks in our feed making approving mentions of Bruni's current "Sexism and the Single Murdress." I can save you the click and tell you that he explains to us that there is a double standard in the way the media covers defendants in violent and sensationalistic murders, and moreover, slutshaming is a thing that happens:

But we know this: the double standard concerning men’s versus women’s sexuality not only survives but thrives, manifest in the enduring notoriety of “Foxy Knoxy,” whose memoir was published on the same day last week that the ABC News special aired. Keep the rest of her story the same but make her a man in the midst of erotic escapades abroad. Are we still gawking? Is ABC trumpeting Diane Sawyer’s exclusive sit-down with the lascivious pilgrim?

It's important to recognize double standards that inflect our understanding of gender. At my day job, I spend some time every semester talking about the words "Coquette," and "Rake," and usually most of the kids get it before I've finished explaining, because, they, like, live it. 

But good for Bruni, in that decrying slutshaming in the media is progress from someone who decided it would be fun to make fun of strippers in one of his final NY Times reviews, including an encounter with a different Foxy:

Meet Foxy. When I visited Robert’s on Valentine’s Day in a mixed-gender group (not all that unusual at the restaurant), she approached our table to hawk neck and shoulder massages, also $20 apiece.

“Foxy,” I began, then stopped myself, wondering if I was being too familiar. “Are you and I on a first-name basis, or should I address you as Ms. Foxy?”

“You can call me Dr. Foxy,” she said.

“Is that an M.D. or a Ph.D.?”

“Yes,” she answered.

The doctor coated her hands with moisturizer and, less seductively, antibacterial gel. She knows how to make a guy feel special.

Bruni continues, and it gets worse:

The guy in question was one of my companions, whose collar she had already spread so she could get at his skin. She told us that she used to work at Scores, a disclosure that raised an interesting question. Is there a strip club arc of professional advancement, with the Hooters overachievers graduating to Scores and the Scores valedictorians to the Penthouse Executive Club?

Haw, haw haw. Valedictorians - get it? Finally:

Remembering my mission and the dictates of journalistic accuracy, I asked them how to spell their names. Although Indica no doubt deemed the question curious, she was too smooth a pro to let on.

But Brianna seemed rattled.

“Two n’s,” I said, “or one?”

She stared at me blankly.

“I never thought about it,” she confessed. “You know, it’s not my real name.”

I couldn’t have guessed. With a job like this one the learning curve is endless, and it takes you in directions you never expected to go.

So, we should respect female murder suspects, and respect their sexuality, but by all means, let's haul out tired stripper cliches. Granted this review ran in 2007, and one hopes that Bruni, like the rest of us have grown up a little bit. It is a) worth noting that the fellow getting likes right now for sticking up for murderesses used to get paid to make fun of strippers. And b) as good a time as any to revisit the Bruni Digest's take on this review. 

 

 

No Goats, no harissa

<Insert ritual apology for not posting recently. Anyway, nudged out of my torpor by a pleasant crossing of the streams in my Twitters. The cinetrix got us Ottolenghi's Plenty a while back, and it's inspiring. I have not done it full justice, but seems like one of those books that comes along and actually changes how and what you cook. So, it was a pleasure to see that one Mr. John Darnelle had joined me on the bandwagon: 

It's kind of like that Tumblr Awesome People Hanging Out Together, but those are only fun when it's folks from disparate pursuits. So, maybe more like Ray Bradbury and Marlene Deitrich. In any event, play us off Mt. Goats: 

http://youtu.be/qRDCTcCRNQI

Because you can't spell "G-Funk Era" without "Giardiniera"

While you wait for the UPS man to bring your Sweet & Sassy Mix, you might give this giardiniera receipt from G&G a whirl. The Cochon muffaletta is the truth, and may, in some situations, edge out the legendary Central Grocery standardbearer. Some of these situations would include wanting to sit down while you eat, having this sandwich on a Sunday, etc. The puree at the end seems smoother than you want, but in terms of sandwich architecture, makes some sense. 

As for the title of this post, some may wonder - is it still the G-Funk Era? Until Warren G tells us different, the G-Funk Era it remains: 

Rick's Picks went on down to the Audubon Zoo...

Some news that is news to RP outsiders like the Cod - a new jawn from the folks at Rick's Picks: Giardiniera. To clarify, it is not a pickled Yankee manager, because that would be cruel. To allay rumors, it is not a pickled genus of anerobic flagellated protozoans. It is, in reality, a pickled vegetable mix. 

It is, as it happens, the key ingredient in the Only Sandwich That Matters, commonly termed the Muffuletta or Muffaletta. That guy who rapped w/DJ Code Money spelled his name different ways too. To create the muffuletta not on Decatur St, and indeed, not even in the 504, would be a literally Promethian feat, if Prometheus had had the good sense to steal a delicious and robust sandwich from the gods.

Bread is critical, but can be done at home -- could Sweet and Sassy Mix be the key that unlocks the mystery of the muffalletta? Time will reveal. While you wait for the UPS man to bring you some, a different kind of sweet and sassy mix from the geniuses at Sparkle Motion. 

Maws- 2, Storm- Nil, or Chefs, where is your peopleshed?

So, Craigie on Main is open again tonight with a $39 special -- one better than a .38 special, for sure. It's interesting that placees that I know of that are open are neighborhood focused* (COM, Northern Spy in NYC), while the places that are shut, (too many to name) are not, by and large. It's not as if the Spies or Maws' guys are foraging lichen in the snow for tonight's meal, but it does raise a question about restaurants that is broader. We've all been talking for a long time about food miles, and foodsheds, etc. True enough, but this food does not a) cook itself or b) eat itself. If we care about sustainability (a strong maybe, maybe?), it seems worth it to add where cooks and servers come from, and how they get to the restaurant, and where customers come from, and how they get to the restaurant. 

A restaurant that's not snowed in today got me thinking about this back in December. At my last meal at Husk, it seemed as if a large proportion of the patrons were eating there either as their first stop after getting off an airplane, or their last stop before getting on an airplane (there was luggage to be wrangled in the foyer). I like Sean Brock's food, and I'm glad the restaurant is successful, and is getting the buzz it warrants. However, given Brock's local focus, it's ironic that the equation has shifted from flying the food to the people to flying the people to the food. I guess what I'm trying to say is, Hold On Loosely: 

*Yes, COM is expensive, and NS ain't cheap, but then, they're located in pretty pricey neighborhoods. Indeed, the great thing about the $39 special is that it gives a chance for folks who are within walking/mushing/XC distance to eat in a non-birthday/anniversary moment. 

Fried pickle sauce, revealed!

So, Bon Ap boss Adam Rapoport got to enjoy some fried Rick's Picks during the Super Bowl. The actual frying process Sarah Sprague has on lock. (Sprague's got most things on lock.) But the photo led to several queries about the sauce. Sources have revealed to the Cod that that sauce is none other than Rick's own Montauk Green. You make it like this: 

Montauk Green

 39 g jalapenos (2 whole ones seeded)

11 g garlic ( 2 whole cloves peeled)

23 g spearmint leaves

38 g parsley]

57 g lime juice

21 g vegetable oil

6 g maldon sea salt

Not sure why they use metric, but you have a digital scale, right? Put this stuff in a blender, and whirr until it looks like the picture. 

Tony Maws' Head & David Chang's butt - Super Bowl twins separated at birth?

For the Cod, Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note is a propos. The next two weeks hold nothing but incessant repitition of the world "Harbaugh," seasoned with higlights of especially inspirational club stabbings. But two chefs the Cod admires have similar SB specials in the pipeline: 

Meanwhile, in NYC:

Interesting to see that Chang is taking one of his signature dishes South of the Border. Thanks to NYC operative and Bar Book Project hostess Liz for the Chang tip. For those of you of a more DIY lean, Ms. Sarah Sprague has all of your SB food needs locked up. 

All Hands on Deck = A legitimate last-minute Crassmass alternative from Red Hook + a gift for you.

(The lede got badly buried here, so just scroll down to the bottom, k?) Once again, the Cod has fallen down on his self-appointed task of collecting righteous causes and pointing out worthless kitchen crap in the hopes you will spurn the former and support the latter. But! As a gift, cards the Cod made to tuck in those fucking kettles - print on Avery 8876 business card template. They look like this. More conducive to send this to the commandants of this outfit than to yell at bellringers. That said, ask someone who has to work within earshot of one of those bells how they feel about those bells. Casual references to Salvation Army-inspired shooting sprees are off the table, obvs, but seriously, it's not easy for them. 

But I digress. In addition to emails from disgruntled  parents of fucking technically grownup college students about assaults on their special snowflakes' self-esteem by the Cod or his comrades, the email has been blowing up with desperate pleas from every last merchant the Cod has ever dealt with, imploring the purchase of electronic gift cards, for which there is still time. (I am reminded of the joke where the Catholic priest says "Yes! But is there TIME?") What a shitty gift. Seriously, just go to the ATM and pull out the amount of cash you might put on a gift card, and stick it in an envelope. 

But, if the sleigh is a little light, and you want to do something, get after All Hands On Deck, a cookbook to benefit Red Hook, the which was ravaged by Sandy (and is the new home of Rick's Picks CEO Rick.) It has cocktails and dumplings and all kinds of good stuff in it and the $ goes to help businesses that got drowned in Sandy. Is it a rival of Cooking up a Storm, considered by some to be the Citizen Kane of hurricane relief cookbooks? Gamble $15 and find out! 

NYC 20something bachelorette vs. the Playboy Host & Bar Book, c. 1971

What with some years at a day job 'Fessering, the Cod has many grasshoppers to be proud of. One familiar to regular readers here is Penny Pascal, noted for her Peerless Photoshopping. Ms. Pascal has found a far more worthwhile project than putting Alice Waters' head various places as the Cod directs. Having stumbled across The Playboy Host & Bar Book, our intrepid hostess is in the midst of a mixthrough of each and every cocktail described therein. Among other things, our hostess will likely consume more blended whiskey than any 20-something bachelorette this side of Jinx Kragen, and how could that be bad? Follow along here. 

Eat Pizza, help the Rockaways

File under "no brainer." If you are Gothamically challenged, the Cod his own self will be celebrating the birthday of his biological host by shucking 100 Island Creek oysters at Nick's, in Clemson, SC. There will be a jar for Rockaway relief.