This article describes famous food critic S. Irene Verbila (what dickwad starts their name with an initial? "My name is N. John Robinson." It's worse than just having one name. Maybe she should just call herself "S") being unmasked by a panicked restaurateur (remember, Flock, no "n" in restaurateur!!)
God, I just wish I could just get to the point sometimes instead of getting waylaid by digressions. But I digress.
The woman shows up for some trendy upmarket NY restaurant and her party is forced to wait something like 45 minutes. Owner, obviously having recognized her, pulls out Secret Weapon X, and to ward off an almost-certain negative review, takes the upper hand, refuses her party service and posts her picture on some website. Quick thinking! It solves so many problems; no bad review (in fact, no review at all!) but a huge deal of exposure through the resulting buzz in the foodie world. Champion of chef-owners defeats evil slime goddess of food-reviewing Gehenna!
As usual, the two camps burst into action with vitriolic diatribes and the like. Some reviewer said he'd gone into some restaurant one day, but it was the next day at some other fancy place where he got the red carpet while the plebes sat near the swinging kitchen door.
I say: who the fuck cares? I'm of the firm opinion that if you show up at a restaurant and are recognized on the spot, what are they going to to do besides give you a good table? Move the restaurant a bit to the left? A horrible dish can't be magically made into a mouthwatering sensation in 45 minutes.
The only time this ever happened to me, and believe me, I WANTED to be recognized (but nobody cared anyway!) I actually went in to a souvlaki joint (Marathon, a chain) wearing my montrealfood.com T-shirt. Mind you, this was a long time ago, but my companion and I immediately observed that the manager was acting distinctly nervous, and he eventually came over and said "Uh, you're from that . . . uh . . . website. Are you reviewing us today?" I cheerfully said yes, and the food was great, but no one stumbled all over themselves to serve us, we got what everyone else got, and about the only thing out of the ordinary was that they gave us a tour of the kitchen. Pretty cool it was, too.
And I have been out with reviewers a lot more famous than I who were spotted immediately, who got schmoozy with the chef and all sorts of things, but I didn't notice any particular uplift in service or portion size. (In fact, I recall that one of those dinners was rather dismal, and the reviewer wrote it up so.)
I figure, don't go to a restaurant with a review in mind. No need to trash it because of your 45-minute wait. If you're hugely influential, like the reviewer for a town's major newspaper, keep in mind that your petty whims might result in people losing their jobs. Or your honeyed praise might make the restaurant boom for weeks.
That's all you have to think about. Being recognized is not going to change one single vital thing in a serious restaurant review.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The New Boy on the Shelf
May I present Toshiro Mifune as Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto (along with his sidekick, Buttbreath, whom I already had):
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| Picture set up and taken by my son, Taishi (Tai-chan)! |
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Scratch, Glorious Scratch
I wasn't sure I still had the touch, but yesterday I dragged out the old pasta machine, and with Tai-chan's now semi-professional help, churned out some ravioli and fettucine. Brigitte was understandably skeptical because I've never made pasta from scratch since I've known her, and I was a bit nervous, but luckily all the old memory cells kicked into gear and I went to it.
I decided to just make cheese filling for the raviolis, as meat takes a lot more prep and this was a spur-of-the-moment thingy.
Most recipes cause for some ricotta-type filling but I opted for Pecorino Romano and some great French hard cheese similar to gouda (Maréchal de lait cru) mixed with par-cooked shallots and garlic. That made a great filling.
I ran out of filling way before I ran out of dough, which, by the way I infused with basil and garlic, so it was crunch time, as I know that if i freeze the rest I'll never use it.
But what I did was is extremely easy -- I just ran all the dough through to the last setting on the machine (the thinnest) and then, using LOTS of flour to prevent sticking -- you can NOT overdo the flour -- I folded the sheets over maybe six or seven times and then simply cut the fettucine with my chef's knife. Then I shook them out of their folded state and voilĂ -- fettucine. If you're going to freeze it, as I did, dust with LOTS of flour and put it on wax paper in a plastic container.
Brigitte made the tomato sauce, and I'm very proud to say that out of maybe 20 raviolis only one broke in the water and Brigitte was mucho impressed -- she told me that she finally believed me after all the hype I'd fed her over the years that my homemade pasta was better than a restaurant's.
The cleanup, unfortunately, is a bit annoying and flour goes everywhere no matter how much you try to contain it.
Sorry, no pics this time but I'll photograph the fettucine when we have it -- maybe carbonara-style.
Meanwhile, you can check out one of my most elaborate preparations I did a few years back (do NOT try this at home) for an idea of the process.
I decided to just make cheese filling for the raviolis, as meat takes a lot more prep and this was a spur-of-the-moment thingy.
Most recipes cause for some ricotta-type filling but I opted for Pecorino Romano and some great French hard cheese similar to gouda (Maréchal de lait cru) mixed with par-cooked shallots and garlic. That made a great filling.
I ran out of filling way before I ran out of dough, which, by the way I infused with basil and garlic, so it was crunch time, as I know that if i freeze the rest I'll never use it.
But what I did was is extremely easy -- I just ran all the dough through to the last setting on the machine (the thinnest) and then, using LOTS of flour to prevent sticking -- you can NOT overdo the flour -- I folded the sheets over maybe six or seven times and then simply cut the fettucine with my chef's knife. Then I shook them out of their folded state and voilĂ -- fettucine. If you're going to freeze it, as I did, dust with LOTS of flour and put it on wax paper in a plastic container.
Brigitte made the tomato sauce, and I'm very proud to say that out of maybe 20 raviolis only one broke in the water and Brigitte was mucho impressed -- she told me that she finally believed me after all the hype I'd fed her over the years that my homemade pasta was better than a restaurant's.
The cleanup, unfortunately, is a bit annoying and flour goes everywhere no matter how much you try to contain it.
Sorry, no pics this time but I'll photograph the fettucine when we have it -- maybe carbonara-style.
Meanwhile, you can check out one of my most elaborate preparations I did a few years back (do NOT try this at home) for an idea of the process.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Trip From Hell
Went to Japan last Friday. Same old same old. Montreal-Detroit-Seattle-Osaka. Had a pleasant two nights on the 44th floor and Tai-chan was delivered the day before departure.
I wasn't as burned out as I usually am, for some reason, but I'd stupidly worn a new pair of dress shoes, which had worn away two nasty blisters on my heels. I suffer from something called peripheral neuropathy (etiology unknown) which simultaneously makes your feet numb and hurt at the same time. Walking long distances makes them hurt more, especially for the first hour after you wake up in the morning.
So I asked my rheumatologist for some pain pills to get me through the three-day marathon of a trip. He obliged -- he gave me Dilaudid (Oxymorphone) which is a very powerful painkiller/narcotic.
Anyway, Tai-chan and I were on the Seattle-Minneapolis leg (I go to Minneapolis on the way back -- don't know why) when i decided to take a pain pill, anticipating the nearly one-mile distance between transfer gates.
Unfortunately fate, as it so often does, conspired to lead me down the garden path in an unfortunate series of events. I, surprise surprise, discovered two coupons for free drinks in my travel wallet (I'm a Gold Medallion member!!!) so I ordered two white wines, to preclude the stewardess from coming back.
Usually this would give me a mild buzz. But combined with fatigue, very little food and low resistance, the Dilaudid saw its opportunity and sprang into action.
By the time we arrived at Minneapolis I was a dizzy, stumbling wreck. Still, my wits were about me, and we made the rush for the plane to Montreal -- we were a few minutes late in and it left in less than an hour, which meant that while we were on our way there, they were already boarding. We eventually had to hop one of those little cars that buzz around airports, but when we arrived at the gate, alas, I couldn't find our passports. In my befuddled state I searched through all our carryons, my jacket, at least ten times until it was discovered that I'd left them on the cart. But the time we retrieved them, the flight was closed.
No matter, said I, we'd check into a hotel. So we made our way down to the shuttle bus for the Ramada Inn. I must have been in a worse state than I recall, because someone pointed me out to the airport police, who helpfully showed up and announced that I had to be taken to a hospital. I objected, asking them to just let us get on the shuttle, check in to the hotel and I could sleep it off. They were having none of that, so they separated us, driving me to the hospital and Tai-chan to some children's home (I learned later.)
What a fucking disaster! They just put me into some recovery area, where I slept a bit (I could do nothing else) and by 6 a.m. I was chipper as a sparrow and desperate to get Tai-chan and get the hell out of there. But nooooo. Now I learned that "child services" wanted to know if I really had custody of Tai-chan or was kidnapping him. Notwithstanding his mother's stamped permission letter, they demanded to speak to his mother -- in Japan.
Well, it was fourteen hours ahead, and she had to work in the morning, and didn't have long distance, so the only chance was to get her to her mother's house at exactly 7 a.m. her time (5 p.m. Minneapolis time) and receive the phone call from child services.
Well, I had to take a taxi clear across town on a 110-degree day (around 37 C) and, using the social services' telephone, leave a message in Japanese on my ex-wife's mother's answering machine begging her to be there at 7 a.m. to get the call. Then I taxied the whole way across town again to where Tai-chan was to wait for the call from Social Services that they'd made contact with his mother and he was free to go. There was the last flight to Montreal at 7 p.m., so once we got confirmation (IF we got confirmation) we'd have to rush to the airport, check in and board the plane.
Well, I won't bother teasing you -- the call went through, we rushed to the airport, made the flight and here we are.
But I sure never want to set foot in Minneapolis ever again.
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| My quickie sketch of the view |
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| The actual view |
So I asked my rheumatologist for some pain pills to get me through the three-day marathon of a trip. He obliged -- he gave me Dilaudid (Oxymorphone) which is a very powerful painkiller/narcotic.
Anyway, Tai-chan and I were on the Seattle-Minneapolis leg (I go to Minneapolis on the way back -- don't know why) when i decided to take a pain pill, anticipating the nearly one-mile distance between transfer gates.
Unfortunately fate, as it so often does, conspired to lead me down the garden path in an unfortunate series of events. I, surprise surprise, discovered two coupons for free drinks in my travel wallet (I'm a Gold Medallion member!!!) so I ordered two white wines, to preclude the stewardess from coming back.
Usually this would give me a mild buzz. But combined with fatigue, very little food and low resistance, the Dilaudid saw its opportunity and sprang into action.
By the time we arrived at Minneapolis I was a dizzy, stumbling wreck. Still, my wits were about me, and we made the rush for the plane to Montreal -- we were a few minutes late in and it left in less than an hour, which meant that while we were on our way there, they were already boarding. We eventually had to hop one of those little cars that buzz around airports, but when we arrived at the gate, alas, I couldn't find our passports. In my befuddled state I searched through all our carryons, my jacket, at least ten times until it was discovered that I'd left them on the cart. But the time we retrieved them, the flight was closed.
No matter, said I, we'd check into a hotel. So we made our way down to the shuttle bus for the Ramada Inn. I must have been in a worse state than I recall, because someone pointed me out to the airport police, who helpfully showed up and announced that I had to be taken to a hospital. I objected, asking them to just let us get on the shuttle, check in to the hotel and I could sleep it off. They were having none of that, so they separated us, driving me to the hospital and Tai-chan to some children's home (I learned later.)
What a fucking disaster! They just put me into some recovery area, where I slept a bit (I could do nothing else) and by 6 a.m. I was chipper as a sparrow and desperate to get Tai-chan and get the hell out of there. But nooooo. Now I learned that "child services" wanted to know if I really had custody of Tai-chan or was kidnapping him. Notwithstanding his mother's stamped permission letter, they demanded to speak to his mother -- in Japan.
Well, it was fourteen hours ahead, and she had to work in the morning, and didn't have long distance, so the only chance was to get her to her mother's house at exactly 7 a.m. her time (5 p.m. Minneapolis time) and receive the phone call from child services.
Well, I had to take a taxi clear across town on a 110-degree day (around 37 C) and, using the social services' telephone, leave a message in Japanese on my ex-wife's mother's answering machine begging her to be there at 7 a.m. to get the call. Then I taxied the whole way across town again to where Tai-chan was to wait for the call from Social Services that they'd made contact with his mother and he was free to go. There was the last flight to Montreal at 7 p.m., so once we got confirmation (IF we got confirmation) we'd have to rush to the airport, check in and board the plane.
Well, I won't bother teasing you -- the call went through, we rushed to the airport, made the flight and here we are.
But I sure never want to set foot in Minneapolis ever again.
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| Home again, eating chocolate chip cookies and watching SpongeBob five minutes after waking up |
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Travel Stories
When you're traveling a long way, as I am, in this case half way around the world (any further and you're repeating yourself) you'd be wise to uh, observe certain rules, so sorry.
Number one, if you're sitting in a window seat all the way, as I like to do (ask me why!) you don't want to eat a large meal less than 8 hours from taking off on your first leg. Secondly, I'd highly advise not eating any more than a croissant or some peanuts for the rest of your journey. Do not be tempted by those delicious airline treats. Do not stop at the hamburger stall in your 1-km dash from terminal to terminal to get to your international leg.
You will regret it. And everyone around you will regret it. Because at some point, there will be an urge. And the urge will come almost always when everyone else has the same urge, or when everyone else is sound asleep, or when you are just about to enter a realm of unexplained, hellish turbulence not related to your insides.
So just don't do it. Consign your last meal to at least 8 hours before your first flight.
Do not drink beer. If you must drink, drink wine. It comes in those neat little bottles, not those pop-top cans which threaten to slide off your Happy Tray every time your seatmate reaches for his magazine.
Yes. I KNOW you still have seven hours to go, but this is not the time to request a six-pack to help you sleep and then have to crawl under your seatmates' knees every time you want to go to the bathroom. This is not a baseball stadium.
And never mind the rush for the bathrooms -- you won't need them. Thus, you will do what any sane passenger does at all times -- keep your seatbelt fastened, to avoid leaving a brain-print on the overhead luggage rack when the plane inexplicably plummets 2,000 feet in thirty seconds out of nowhere.
Oh, the reason for the window? Because your seatmates will have absolutely nowhere to put their tired heads when they want to go to sleep, whereas you'll have that mohair blanket you brought along to cushion you against the window as you sleep in sleeping-pill, toilet-free bliss.
Number one, if you're sitting in a window seat all the way, as I like to do (ask me why!) you don't want to eat a large meal less than 8 hours from taking off on your first leg. Secondly, I'd highly advise not eating any more than a croissant or some peanuts for the rest of your journey. Do not be tempted by those delicious airline treats. Do not stop at the hamburger stall in your 1-km dash from terminal to terminal to get to your international leg.
You will regret it. And everyone around you will regret it. Because at some point, there will be an urge. And the urge will come almost always when everyone else has the same urge, or when everyone else is sound asleep, or when you are just about to enter a realm of unexplained, hellish turbulence not related to your insides.
So just don't do it. Consign your last meal to at least 8 hours before your first flight.
Do not drink beer. If you must drink, drink wine. It comes in those neat little bottles, not those pop-top cans which threaten to slide off your Happy Tray every time your seatmate reaches for his magazine.
Yes. I KNOW you still have seven hours to go, but this is not the time to request a six-pack to help you sleep and then have to crawl under your seatmates' knees every time you want to go to the bathroom. This is not a baseball stadium.
And never mind the rush for the bathrooms -- you won't need them. Thus, you will do what any sane passenger does at all times -- keep your seatbelt fastened, to avoid leaving a brain-print on the overhead luggage rack when the plane inexplicably plummets 2,000 feet in thirty seconds out of nowhere.
Oh, the reason for the window? Because your seatmates will have absolutely nowhere to put their tired heads when they want to go to sleep, whereas you'll have that mohair blanket you brought along to cushion you against the window as you sleep in sleeping-pill, toilet-free bliss.
Travel Stories
When you're traveling a long way, as I am, in this case half way around the world (any further and you're repeating yourself) you'd be wise to uh, observe certain rules, so sorry.
Number one, if you're sitting in a window seat all the way, as I like to do (ask me why!) you don't want to eat a large meal less than 8 hours from taking off on your first leg. Secondly, I'd highly advise not eating any more than a croissant or some peanuts for the rest of your journey. Do not be tempted by those delicious airline treats. Do not stop at the hamburger stall in your 1-km dash from terminal to terminal to get your international leg.
You will regret it. And everyone around you will regret it. Because at some point, there will be an urge. And the urge will come almost always when everyone else has the same urge, or when everyone else is sound asleep, or when you are just about to enter a realm of unexplained, hellish turbulence not related to your insides.
So just don't do it. Consign your last meal to at least 8 hours before your first flight.
Do not drink beer. If you must drink, drink wine. It comes in those neat little bottles, not those pop-top cans which threaten to slide off your Happy Tray every time your seatmate reaches for his magazine.
Yes. I KNOW you still have seven hours to go, but this is not the time to request a six-pack to help you sleep and then have to crawl under your seatmates' knees every time you want to go to the bathroom. This is not a baseball stadium.
And never mind the rush for the bathrooms -- you won't need them. Thus, you will do what any sane passenger does at all times -- keep your seatbelt fastened, to avoid leaving a brain-print on the overhead luggage rack when the plane inexplicably plummets 2,000 feet in thirty seconds out of nowhere.
Oh, the reason for the window? Because your seatmates will have absolutely nowhere to put their tired heads when they want to go to sleep, whereas you'll have that mohair blanket you brought along to cushion you against the window as you sleep in sleeping-pill, toilet-free bliss.
Number one, if you're sitting in a window seat all the way, as I like to do (ask me why!) you don't want to eat a large meal less than 8 hours from taking off on your first leg. Secondly, I'd highly advise not eating any more than a croissant or some peanuts for the rest of your journey. Do not be tempted by those delicious airline treats. Do not stop at the hamburger stall in your 1-km dash from terminal to terminal to get your international leg.
You will regret it. And everyone around you will regret it. Because at some point, there will be an urge. And the urge will come almost always when everyone else has the same urge, or when everyone else is sound asleep, or when you are just about to enter a realm of unexplained, hellish turbulence not related to your insides.
So just don't do it. Consign your last meal to at least 8 hours before your first flight.
Do not drink beer. If you must drink, drink wine. It comes in those neat little bottles, not those pop-top cans which threaten to slide off your Happy Tray every time your seatmate reaches for his magazine.
Yes. I KNOW you still have seven hours to go, but this is not the time to request a six-pack to help you sleep and then have to crawl under your seatmates' knees every time you want to go to the bathroom. This is not a baseball stadium.
And never mind the rush for the bathrooms -- you won't need them. Thus, you will do what any sane passenger does at all times -- keep your seatbelt fastened, to avoid leaving a brain-print on the overhead luggage rack when the plane inexplicably plummets 2,000 feet in thirty seconds out of nowhere.
Oh, the reason for the window? Because your seatmates will have absolutely nowhere to put their tired heads when they want to go to sleep, whereas you'll have that mohair blanket you brought along to cushion you against the window as you sleep in sleeping-pill, toilet-free bliss.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Uishu Mi Ruck
That would be "Wish me luck," flock, in Japanese. I've been silent for a while because I've been recovering from a huge influx of Brigitte's relatives for a massive wedding and I just discovered, much to my chagrin, that a) while I once reveled in parties, dinners and socializing, now I have a horrendous aversion to them, and b) get me in a room with more than 20 people, especially most of whom I don't know, and I'm ready to flee in terror.
That was not a success, so I've been recovering ever since, mainly lying in bed and reading or watching TV and not answering the phone unless I know it's Brigitte.
It's weird, because when I was younger (so much younger than today) I never needed anybody's help in any way. I was great in a crowd, loved concerts, loud restaurants, raucous after-pub stumbling down night streets, but no more, flock, no more. Not Any More. Maybe too much acid when I was younger -- I just don't know.
But now when the invite comes to some function, I truly weigh the cons and cons, and usually decide on the cons. Life is too short. I'd rather just hang with Brigitte in a quiet night home, maybe cooking, watching movies, babbling, hanging out.
However, my life is about to become split in two yet again, when I board the Japan Train yet again on Friday. You who know me know how that goes. 5 a.m. flight from Montreal to Detroit. Then to Seattle. Then to Osaka.
Hotel the night I arrive. One day to recuperate, my son arrives. One more night. Then, do it all again in reverse, except with my son. Doing it with Tai-chan is always far easier, especially as he gets older (he'll be ten this August). And especially coming back to Montreal with him is the best, because there's home and Brigitte and a whole summer at the end of it.
The dreaded one is in the Fall, coming back alone from Japan . . . gotta admit, that's a tough one.
These days, I almost always get "flagged" by customs, always in Canada. Never in the US. Never mind that I'm a Canadian citizen. Canadian customs are Hitler Youth-in training, I swear. The most officious little pricks I've ever met. Like they've truly got to "Get Their Man." Little fucking rosy-cheeked Newfies fresh out of cadet school anxious to "nab" the "terrorist." The Americans, brusque as they are, seem to know what's what. But not these Canuckian clowns.
I'll get flagged and pulled aside to the little room at least once -- it's all so predictable. Maybe it's because I dare to wear a tie. Maybe they don't like that -- I should look like all the other doofuses in reverse baseball caps and dockers because it's what THEY would wear. No . . . "tie" is SUSPICIOUS!!!!
I won't be able to post progress as I'm leaving the laptop behind. I'll be back next Monday.
Wish me Ruck, Frock, wish me Ruck.
That was not a success, so I've been recovering ever since, mainly lying in bed and reading or watching TV and not answering the phone unless I know it's Brigitte.
It's weird, because when I was younger (so much younger than today) I never needed anybody's help in any way. I was great in a crowd, loved concerts, loud restaurants, raucous after-pub stumbling down night streets, but no more, flock, no more. Not Any More. Maybe too much acid when I was younger -- I just don't know.
But now when the invite comes to some function, I truly weigh the cons and cons, and usually decide on the cons. Life is too short. I'd rather just hang with Brigitte in a quiet night home, maybe cooking, watching movies, babbling, hanging out.
However, my life is about to become split in two yet again, when I board the Japan Train yet again on Friday. You who know me know how that goes. 5 a.m. flight from Montreal to Detroit. Then to Seattle. Then to Osaka.
Hotel the night I arrive. One day to recuperate, my son arrives. One more night. Then, do it all again in reverse, except with my son. Doing it with Tai-chan is always far easier, especially as he gets older (he'll be ten this August). And especially coming back to Montreal with him is the best, because there's home and Brigitte and a whole summer at the end of it.
The dreaded one is in the Fall, coming back alone from Japan . . . gotta admit, that's a tough one.
These days, I almost always get "flagged" by customs, always in Canada. Never in the US. Never mind that I'm a Canadian citizen. Canadian customs are Hitler Youth-in training, I swear. The most officious little pricks I've ever met. Like they've truly got to "Get Their Man." Little fucking rosy-cheeked Newfies fresh out of cadet school anxious to "nab" the "terrorist." The Americans, brusque as they are, seem to know what's what. But not these Canuckian clowns.
I'll get flagged and pulled aside to the little room at least once -- it's all so predictable. Maybe it's because I dare to wear a tie. Maybe they don't like that -- I should look like all the other doofuses in reverse baseball caps and dockers because it's what THEY would wear. No . . . "tie" is SUSPICIOUS!!!!
I won't be able to post progress as I'm leaving the laptop behind. I'll be back next Monday.
Wish me Ruck, Frock, wish me Ruck.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Odd
It's odd that my father isn't here any more. Even after almost a year and a half I find myself absent-mindedly reaching for the phone to call him in California to ask him some trivial question about some show about the fight over the English channel during World War II -- you know: "Call Dad -- he'd know if the guys would really go down to the pub after a mission and get hosed, and how was that possible?" but then you suddenly snap to some sort of attention and say no, I can't call Dad any more . . . I'll never talk to Dad ever again.
It's not a sad, regretful feeling, it's just a very odd feeling. I know it's probably the same for every one of us. I wonder how long the feeling that if you just pick up the phone -- there -- you'll hear his smiling "Well, hello, Nicholas!" as if somehow he'd been waiting for me to call all day, will last.
Well, maybe it's the reverse. He heard my question and called me, in a way, to remind me he's still around somewhere.
Yes, that definitely makes a lot more sense. I'll take that.
It's not a sad, regretful feeling, it's just a very odd feeling. I know it's probably the same for every one of us. I wonder how long the feeling that if you just pick up the phone -- there -- you'll hear his smiling "Well, hello, Nicholas!" as if somehow he'd been waiting for me to call all day, will last.
Well, maybe it's the reverse. He heard my question and called me, in a way, to remind me he's still around somewhere.
Yes, that definitely makes a lot more sense. I'll take that.
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| Hi Dad. So did you guys go get hosed after every mission? Truth, please! |