Soccer versus porn. Care to make the call?
Spain's success at Euro 2008 hurt erotic film festival
Spain's success at Euro 2008 hurt attendance at an erotic film festival which wrapped up Saturday in Madrid as its target audience -- men -- were glued to their television screens, organisers said.
Yeah. No contest.
Happy Father's Day, Dad. I miss you.
Chefs have a curious attitude towards people that review their restaurants. We hate 'em, but we need 'em. I tend to read restaurant reviews with the same fervor that some read the obituaries in The Times (UK). You can learn a lot from reading restaurant reviews, especially between the lines. It's a great way to see how trends are evolving and devolving.
Restaurants rise and fall upon reviews, as well as word of mouth. And word of mouth is oftimes fueled by reviews. A good review can bring in customers, and a great review can set a chef up for life, depending on the restaurant.
A so-so review can cost you your job, or those under you; again, depending on the restaurant. A bad review can shut you down in 24 hours.
And then there are reviews like this.
The New York Times
No Trouble Drawing a Crowd
By FRANK BRUNI
Published: June 11, 2008BECAUSE our 8:30 p.m. table at Ago wasn’t ready by 8:51, we were still at the bar when the great wave of white wine crashed over it.
I’m talking about the “Poseidon Adventure” of wine spills. Shelley Winters could have done the backstroke in it. I’m not sure how the bartender set it in motion, and neither was he. He kept marveling at its fury and aftermath: my friend’s wine-splashed chin, her wine-soaked skirt, her wine-sopped entirety.
He apologized perhaps 639 times, and I wouldn’t recount the incident if that were the whole of it. Spills happen.
The following shouldn’t.
What follows is one of the most devastating reviews for a high end restaurant I've read in years. This review will be legendary in the biz when the dust settles. It is a review that should be tattooed on the forehead of every culinary school student and college hospitality major preparing to enter the lists.
It's also a review that gives hints of a disturbing trend in the culinary profession, a trend that I believe is becoming endemic: The emergence of culinary arrogance as the rule and not the exception in the restaurant biz, brought on by the whole "rock star" glitterati aspect of the struggle to become a high profile chef. I intend to explore this issue in more detail in another post.
But getting back to the review at hand. The number of things wrong with the dinner described are immense. Just one hit after another. This isn't really a review, actually. It's more like the Mongol hordes riding through your restaurant, raping, pillaging and finally burning the place to the the ground and scattering the ashes to the four winds. That's how bad this review is.
This restaurant isn’t in the hospitality business. It’s in the attitude business, projecting an aloofness that permeated all of my meals there, nights of wine and poses for swingers on the make, cougars on the prowl and anyone else who values a sort of facile fabulousness over competent service or a breaded veal Milanese with any discernible meat.
The one I had one night was pounded so thin that the breading on top met the breading on the bottom without pausing for much of anything in between. A vegan could have made peace with it.
Some of the other food passed muster. The best of the pizzas from Ago’s wood-fired brick oven had blistered, smoky crusts and thin sheets of decent Parmesan. An appetizer of burrata was suitably creamy, and a juicy T-bone — cooked, like the pizzas, in the brick oven — satisfied the steak lover in me.
But this restaurant in the new Greenwich Hotel in TriBeCa doesn’t concentrate its energies on quality or consistency. It’s content to be a deafening “hot spot,” which is how it’s identified in the headline atop its inaugural press release, and when you’ve got the heat and the crowd is standing-room-only, why sweat the raw artichoke salad? The paltry artichoke was hard to find among all the frisée, and Shelley could have done the freestyle in the dressing.
Ago’s principal owners include the chef Agostino Sciandri — the restaurant, pronounced AH-go, is named after him — and the actor Robert DeNiro, who treated TriBeCa much better with Nobu. They teamed on an initial Ago in West Hollywood, another in South Beach and yet another in Las Vegas. New York is getting their sloppy fourths, emphasis on sloppy.
(And, emphasis mine...)
Sweet jebus. Mr. Bruni, in a few well written paragraphs, basically says that anyone going to Ago is a poser, riding the latest, hip place to be seen until it has to be whipped across the finish line to collapse in a steaming heap. Ok, the pizza is good and so is the steak, but any monkey in a toque can pull that off. Oh, yeah, and by the way, ROBERT FREAKIN' DENIRO owns the place that is the target of my FA-18 air strike.
And then there is the chimera that's served one of the reviewers party. Priceless, and absolutely catastrophic.
Read the whole thing to savor the horror.
(cross posted at Daily Pundit)
I hate the Toyota Prius.
First of all; the name. It makes me think of priapus. If there is anything that does not remind me of male virility, it's the Toyota Prius.
Next up; it's a butt ugly car. It's as if Toyota said, we're going to foist a green car on you and we're going to make it as butt ugly as possible, because we know that you'll buy it. We could sell you a Prius if it was pink with teal polkadots, because you believe.
And finally? It's not all that. Case in point? Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear takes the Prius down.
This really made my day. Regardless of the anti-American bias, it's a joy to see a faux cracker joyfully dispatch a Prius.
(tip 'o' hat: Ace)
Awhile back, I posted on a new foodie magazine called Meatpaper. Today, The Lady pointed me to an article in the Post about Meatpaper from this past April that I completely missed. Good article, and I love the magazine. It's some of the best food writing out there, with the addition of a lot of strangeness all put through a grinder.
Yet another sign of the impending apocalypse.
Literally.
Website Lets You Send a Post-Rapture E-Mail to Friends 'Left Behind'
By Kevin Poulsen EmailJune 03, 2008 | 3:42:43 PMIf millions of Christians suddenly disappear from the face of the Earth as the opening act for Armageddon, Threat Level thinks most nonbelievers will be too busy freaking the hell out to check their e-mail. But if they do log in, now they can be treated to some post-Rapture needling from their missing friends and loved ones, courtesy of web startup YouveBeenLeftBehind.com.
For just $40 a year, believers can arrange for up to 62 people to get a final message exactly six days after the Rapture, that day when -- according to Christian end times dogma -- Christians will be swept up to heaven, while doubters are left behind to suffer seven years of Tribulation under a global government headed by the Antichrist.
"You've Been Left Behind gives you one last opportunity to reach your lost family and friends for Christ," reads the website, which is purportedly run "by Christians, for Christians." The domain name is registered through an anonymous proxy service, presumably to protect the proprietors from the Forces of Darkness, and not because they're up to anything shady.
The e-mails will be triggered when three of the site's five Christian staffers "scattered around the U.S." fail to log in for six days in a row -- a system that incorporates a nice margin of safety, should two of the proprietors turn out to be unrepentant sinners or atheists.
Man, that's gonna be a bummer of an email session, realizing that your Raptured pals and relatives are such dickheads as to leave you some damn emails bragging on their ascent to paradise.
Of course, it would be a great hoot to get one of those emails from someone, and then run into them walking around confused and wailing, "What did I do wrong?!?!"
"Yo! I got your email! Hey, I thought you blew this joint."
"F&%k off."
"What? Didn't catch that."
"F#^K OFF! F@$K OFF AND DIE!!"
"Hey, are those trumpets I hear?"
"Where? WHERE? HERE I COME, LORD!!"
"Psych!"
Yeah. I'd pay good money for that...
(Tip 'o' the hat: Ace)
Prince covers Radiohead's Creep at Coachella '08.
Download Creep_Radiohead_Cover_.mp3
This is getting some major speed on the 'net, with Prince's peeps freaking out on YouTube doing whack-a-mole with the videos.
Give it up, O Purple One. Once that cat was out of the bag, there was no way you were gonna get it back in. Let it be.
I walk 47 miles of barbed wire,
I use a cobra-snake for a necktie,
I got a brand new house on the roadside,
Made from rattlesnake hide,
I got a brand new chimney made on top,
Made out of a human skull,
Now come on take a walk with me, arlene,
And tell me, who do you love?
I don't know about you, but those lyrics and that song still send a thrill down my back every time I hear 'em.
Tombstone hand and a graveyard mine,
Just 22 and I don’t mind dying.
Bo Diddley, the man who made that sound, has died. He made it way past 22; he was 79.
I rode around the town, use a rattlesnake whip,
Take it easy arlene, don’t give me no lip.
He created a beat so unique and so downright badass, that rock n roll just sort of takes it for granted these days. You know it when you hear it. Hard. Persistent. Passionate. Desperate. Bo cracked that whip, and made millions sit up and notice.
Night was dark, but the sky was blue,
Down the alley, the ice-wagon flew,
Heard a bump, and somebody screamed,
You should have heard just what I seen.
We heard that sound within a sound. Cool, but never slick. One of the great guitar sounds of all time.
Arlene took me by my hand,
And she said ooowee bo, you know I understand.
So did we, Bo. So did we.
Who do you love?
I know this is probably lowdown and dirty, but to hell with it. What good is a contest if you can't jigger the damn thing...
My good friends Andrew and Aileen Trice, owners of Angel's BBQ in Savannah, Georgia, have entered the Travel Channel's Anthony Bourdain FAN-atics contest, wherein people upload videos explaining why Anthony Bourdain should do an episode of No Reservations with them.
Andrew Trice is the real deal. He's a classically, French trained chef in his own right, who returned to his roots to further the art and lore of smoking meat, pig in particular, to sublime perfection. He is one of the few fellow cooks I know who is truly genuine. No bombast, bells or whistles. What you see is what you get, and what you get is a breadth of knowledge and lore that is staggering.
He and his wife Aileen have taken a tiny carriage house in the shadow of one of Savannah's many beautiful churches and temples, and over the last few years nursed it into a local Mecca for lovers of good BBQ. When The Lady and I visit, we always stop in for a number of great meals elevated with stories, lore, gossip and shop talk.
So, here's what I want you to do, should you be so inclined... Check out this video, and, if you find it agreeable, register and rate it highly. Remember, BBQ is a beautiful thing, and those who labor honestly in the smoke and fire with the pig are truly blessed among cooks.
I just want to send out a big ole Happy Birthday to a wonderful friend and colleague who has done so much for me over the years.
It's tough to come up a definition of what a friend is, but Laura is always there with bells and a healthy cynicism that compliments mine. She's a damn fine cook, all around good girl and mother and makes the best paprikash and dumplings around. She also is generous with her supply of tequila, which comes in very handy on occasion.
I know this will embarrass her greatly, but I don't care.
Happy Birthday, Laura, and may many, many more follow!
Well, screw that shit.
I'm going to see if I can manage not to write a single word about politics from now until after election day, because, frankly, I don't have a dog in this race. There is not a single person left standing that deserves my vote, in either party.
I'll be voting. There's a slew of other things to vote for, but I'm withholding my vote for president until someone worthy of the position comes wandering around with a good argument.
And that's it on the politics for now. Let's see if I can resist...
How else to explain my absence from the aether?
A very long month of chaos, culminating in a mad dash to Savannah to cater Ray and Carleen's 50th wedding anniversary to the tune of 450 or so crab cakes. Jesus, was that crazy. That weekend was summed up by Diana's fiance Tommy stumbling into the kitchen of the American Legion Hall at Tybee Island, and saying, "Karl, you are one crazy f&%k!"
I could only reply, "Well, yeah, Tommy. Sorta sums up my weekend."
Needless to say, I need to blog. This is getting ridiculous. Especially considering that I'm the toast of Tybee Island for doing the best crab cakes anyone's ever had. This is becoming a running joke with me and mine. I make rockin' good crab cakes. Best anyone's ever had. Really. Lot's of drunk, little old ladies residing in Savannah and Tybee will testify to this. Best crab cakes evah...
And there you go. Not sure what happened. I woke up on a beach in Georgia with stars in my eyes and a soreness in my a... Ah. Well. I'll leave it at that for the moment.
More to follow, including the saga of Bubba and Miss Georgia Ann...
Well, it's Valentine's Day, and that's not a good thing. Or it is, depending on how you look at it.
In our household, Valentine's Day is something of a curse.
First off, I'm a chef, and Valentines is a sorry service to work. Busy as hell with frantic men taking out their women for a night on the town; something that approximates their somewhat skewed view of what romance consists of. So they take the girl out to dinner to a restaurant staffed with an incredibly stressed staff that would rather be fighting the Taliban than serving you food.
Think about that for a moment...
Second, this is The Lady's birthday, and we can't really go out to celebrate it, because of the above. And especially today. We've been on the road. That's right. The Lady, great sport that she is, has been on the road with me on her birthday to Savannah, Georgia. And it's not on vacation or anything like that. No, Chef Mojo had a major catering gig out on Tybee Island, and he needs The Lady to help him pick through 25 pounds or so of crab meat so he can do his job. 450 or so little crab cakes, along with shrimp, asparagus, stuffed tomatoes, tapenade and a cheese display for 150 well heeled Savannahians and Islanders. Jeez. I feel like I'm in the middle of a train wreck...
But all is not lost. Tomorrow, we'll take some time off and do it up right with a birthday dinner at Elizabeth on 37th, perhaps one of the best restaurants on the East Coast. We're going to take a taxi, eat like dukes and drink like kings and pretty much enjoy the hell out of ourselves.
So, thanks, sweetie. For everything. Love you lots.
This is Ron Paul. The real Ron Paul:
As I wrote previously, there's a big difference between a real libertarian who joins the movement due to a belief in the power of freedom and someone using libertarianism as a flag of convenience to add respectability to retrograde and repugnant views. Ron Paul's positions don't indicate that he's terribly interested in freedom so much as he's interested in keeping the Jews from stealing his gold.
His goldbuggery? He's trying to keep "international bankers" (wink, wink) from "manipulating" currencies to enrich themselves at the expense of normal, patriotic people. Normal, patriotic people who spin no dreidls and do not control the media. Savvy?
His foreign policy? He just wants to keep "the Jewish lobby" -- "the most powerful lobby in America," he says -- from getting the US to fight more wars on behalf of Israel.
Oh, and he wants to stop fighting in the Middle East and stop supporting foreign countries. Let me just postulate, based on Ron Paul's long record on such issues, that he's chiefly interested in ceasing animosity with Israel's enemies and most passionate about ending support of Israel. The other countries are just added for consistency. We can see what's animating this little anti-semitic cunt.
He's just "prone to nutty conspiracy theories," eh? Let me paraphrase Umberto Eco by saying There is no conspiracy theory on the planet that does not, at some point, involve the Jews.
This is rather obvious. I can count on one hand the conspiracy theories I've heard that didn't involve Jews, "international bankers," Mossad, or Golda Fucking Meir at the center of the web of manipulation.
Who the fuck did Reason think Ron Paul had in mind for the ultimate malefactors of the Vast International Banker Conspiracy? The Knights Fucking Templar?
At the heart of every conspiracy theory is irrational hatred and scapegoating, boys. Not "Love," not even the backwards kind of love in R3VO_|ution.
Was it really up to me to alert the brain trust at Reason of this fact? You guys didn't sort of figure that out on your own?
No wonder you were so blindsided. Committed conspiracy-nut suspects International Jewry might be up to some malfeasance. Surely no one could have seen that surprise twist coming. It's like the end of The Usual Suspects, except Keyser Sose turns out to be Rabbi Moishe Lefkowitz.
Reason can take its pose of being shocked, shocked to find anti-semitism in the heart of an anti-Israel, anti-AIPAC, anti-"international banker" conspiracy nutter and stick it straight up its wannabe-hipster ass.
Damn, Ace. Tell us what you really think!
This goes under "Read The Whole Thing." People like myself have been reading the signs put out by Ron Paul and his merry band of nutjobs. Ace pretty much sums up the events of the last 24 hours as far as the Paulbots are concerned, and finds them...lacking.
To be fair, several Reason writers express "disappointment" or the like in Paul, and Paul's typical non-response response. And a call for him to answer "questions" about the newsletters.
But most of it is just self-serving nonsense. Reason's folks are likely embarrassed, and I can't blame them for feeling so. They were taken in hook, line and sinker by an oddball hick secessionist and confirmed Jew-hater who brought precious exposure to their quixotic quest to legalize drugs. One can forgive them, perhaps, for the initial attempts to make excuses.
Not just for Ron Paul. But for themselves and their own poor judgment.
But one can forgive them for only so long. This absurd nonsense that Ron Paul didn't approve of his own newsletters, even as he concedes he wrote much of them (just not the embarrassingly racist or anti-semitic parts, mind you!), and thus should be held blameless is embarrassing and simple apologetics for a bitter, twisted old Jew-hatin' reject from the John Birch Society.
You want to keep "the movement" alive? Fine. But reject and renounce Ron Paul himself and stop making absurd claims about his innocence.
Or else continue standing with your venomous, anti-American, conspiracy-mongering Jew-hating twat of "leader." And be counted as one of his disciples, the same sort of disciples who made sure to read The Ron Paul Survival Report back in its dubious heyday, in order to be alerted as to when "the animals" might be moving in on them.
At some point credulity becomes complicity.
(emphasis mine)
Ron Paul's movement was corrupt from the start. Rotten to it's core. It's sadly amusing to see all his disoriented supporters either trying to justify him or run away.
Chelada, baby!
That's right, kids. This is what it's come to. Budweiser, tomato juice and clams.
Really. Who the f*%k comes up with this stuff? I'm just trying to picture the guys at Anheuser-Busch around a table trying to come up with this.
"No, really, dude! Let's take Bud and mix it with Clamato! It's like, well, a Bloody Mary, only lighter or something!"
"Yeah, that's a good one! Maybe we can get people to use it like Red Bull and add their own vodka. Sorta like a this mellow beer and vodka bloody..."
"OH, OH, OH! Cool! And then we can put it in a tall can, with the most un-hip label we can come up with, which will make it so uber-hip that the straights will just cream at the thought of it!"
"Ok. So what do we call it?"
[silence]
[silence]
"Chelada."
"Huh?"
"Yeah. Chelada."
"What the f#^k?"
"No, wait. Wait. I'm seeing it... Enchelada without the 'En," right?"
"You got it, dude."
"But it's spelled 'enchilada.'"
"Never mind that, you anal-retentive twat, he's on a roll!"
[smiles all around]
"Run with it, guys! Make it work!"
I mean, can it get any worse than this?
(Via: Ace)
