Carrot Top

I think we are. I know I am.

The last two people that quoted me that line ascribed it to Twain and to Benjamin Franklin. Now you say Fitzgerald. Maybe these guys should get together around a dinner table and sort out who *really* said it. I've decided to go with the quote "When we risk no contradiction, it prompts the tongue to deal in fiction." By the same author who wrote "Where yet was ever found a mother, who'd give her booby for another?" John Gay. But back to boring reviews. Gee, they do seem to happen.

I'd never heard of it till yesterday (though apparently it's been around for several years ) when going to Sonic (under duress) they had it advertised on the menu. Big big sign. It sort of appalled me, so I tried to order it. The thing is, they had it as a "slurpie" which made me laugh as "slurpie" sounded funny in conjunction with "full throttle fury" and I laughed so hard the guy taking the order could not understand me. So I gave up and ordered root beer instead. Then I came home and googled it and found that lovely ad. Apparently they also have "sugar-free" Full Throttle and will be releasing something called "Full Throttle Mother" in August. (I'm guessing that's pronounced "muthuh" not "mother".) Still, I think I'll have to try it to see what it feels like to let my inner man out. At the very least, it might have me jumping around playing air guitar and howling. And how much fun is that.

So does it do it for you?

Nay, Sir Charles. U Troll Non. It was just that I happened to remember this from several days ago, which I enjoyed at the time. But that was on Friday and of course we know one must believe Ten Impossible Things Before Breakfast each Friday, (and on Mondays and Wednesdays, too, for those of us who are so inclined) so I am assuming that your charming review simply was part of a Friday morning madness. Michelin never need know of this.

Was Charles was advocating those? ← It sounded rather close to it, to me. Stars plus minimum verbiage, anyway. But I'm not sure if I believe he really meant what he wrote.

I'm hoping someone can tell me . . .does anyone know . . . has any statue been erected to a critic yet?

So much food sucks because that is what people are willing to pay for. Large, sucky portions on large, sucky plates served by large, sucky (or small sucky) servers who are only doing their job "till they can find something *better*". Interesting article in the NYT today, Top Chef Dreams that talks about how much it costs a cook to enter the field thinking of it and wanting it to be a "profession" rather than a "trade". We are an industrial country with industrial practices going on in all fields. If we want our food to be quality and artisan, we'll have to pay the actual price it costs, not only in the cost of the raw foodstuffs of excellence (unless we decide to eat beans and onions only, which are rather inexpensive) but also in that well-trained professional cooks will cost us more on our tab when their salaries hit the plate in the taste of the food. In other words, we get what we pay for and the majority of "us" want to pay for what we are getting. Or actually "we" probably want to pay less if it were only possible. Excuse me for a moment. I have to answer the phone. It's probably someone inviting me to the "all you can eat for some exciting price" buffet. You have those near where you live, don't you?

Here's something that might have something to say about whether restaurant reviews are boring or pointless: Jonathan Gold wins Pulitzer Prize Interesting, regardless of what one thinks about the political side of the Pulitzers. Or what one thinks about the political side of anything. There are some reviews attached to the piece that show the writing that earned the Pulitzer: Flesh and Bone Heh. More than simply adorable. Now obviously the more pop and sizzle the restaurant has, the more pop and sizzle the reviewer has to work with. And there's a lot more pop in the big cities, for the most part, or nearby any metropolis, except for rare circumstances. I can't think of a restaurant within one hundred miles of my house that would make me want to pop and sizzle, myself. But that is where art comes in. We work with what we have in life. And make of it what it can be, and make of ourselves what we can be as a result. It can't be the restaurants faults if the reviews are torpid and lame. It is the restaurants faults if they, themselves, suck. But if a poet can make mystery or marvel of a piece of grass or a cardboard box on a street, then surely a reviewer or critic can make something from words out of even the most yawn-inducing place to eat, something to read that would not be "boring or pointless". After all, that's the job they chose to do. To give readers knowledge. In an entertaining fashion. But if it is not done well, and if the reviews do end up seeming boring or pointless, then I would have to say that a guide with stars would do the exact same job for a reader seeking this "knowledge" (which is actually simply educated opinion so one has to trust both the education level of the reviewer specifically pertaining to this field, and also their personal opinions and tastes) and would do it even quicker.

Or more people who know how to really write a love letter that'll knock more'n your socks off.

Busboy's original main point (if I am reading it right) is that there is a mediocrity inbred into reviews here in this place and time, often, because of the format set upon them by the standard policies of the newspapers/journals that print reviews (those newspapers/journals having set a recipe upon the idea of "review" in a way). He was crying out, in an uncaring world, ( )( ) for the betterment of the species, which would lead to a more interesting world with far far better things to read than currently are tossed at our feet often enough, as reviews. Inclusion of cultural information. Variance of format. Maybe some history or sociology tossed in here or there. More of the "behind the scenes" of what's on that plate. For food can and does go much further than just the stomach. For those who care to think about these sorts of things. A friend just wrote me something about writing (which of course reviewing anything is, it is writing). He said that he hoped that I would find my energies interestingly directed to "streams of thought that will, sometime or another, lend differences to reader's days". Isn't this what one really hopes for from something read? That the words would be streams of thought that will, sometime or another, lend difference to a readers day? If a review or any piece of writing does that (in whatsoever way), then to me it is a success. And in thinking back, I can think of pieces of writing that might slip right through me, like a grape popsicle among many grape popsicles. Unless there is something "more", something special, something that sparks that grape popsicle into something somehow more than it really looks like or tastes like, sitting there in its bland white paper wrapper, then that grape popsicle is really not going to lend a hell of a lot of difference to my day. But then, there are ways of writing of that same grape popsicle that would make it become important, marvellous, mystic, or even just so plain interesting that I could not then stop thinking about it, after reading of it written this way. So here is to the restaurant review that roars and dances. And shame on any format that disallows them from doing so.

One of the few places in the US that you can be sure of getting a bit of tongue offered you is in a good Jewish deli. Here are some directions on how to go about getting the tongue you want, on your plate. Nice topic, le petit boucher. Looking forward to seeing your next set of photos.

Looks like the Greenmarket is still open Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays over by the courthouse. Just let me keep living vicariously here through my posts, guys.

They taste terrible, to me. It was just the effort involved in balancing the layers and getting to her without mixing up a single perfect one, that I was thinking of.

There used to be an odd little German place right off Court Street up the street from the Borough Hall Station. Only open at lunch but one thing they always served (year round, forget about seasonality) was a really nice Sauerbraten with all the sides. There was also a Spanish take-out/deli/bodega on Court Street, halfway up the block heading into Bkln. from the same subway station that had good home-style oxtail stew with yellow rice or braised chicken, the same, and again only open for lunch. I wonder if they are still there. Just "home-style" cooking but both very good at what they did. P.S. I also wonder if the fresh poultry market is open down by the docks around the Cobble Hill/Red Hook border. Oh! Also some great bakeries in Cobble Hill, and certainly not a huge walk at all.

Perhaps Mom would like to start off dinner with a cocktail. A Pousse-Cafe or two? Three Pousse-Cafe's imbibed can have the effect of those drinking them wishing to endow Sainthood upon all those around them. If they don't pass out first, that is.

Wow. I guess Nile perch *is* exported. Interesting documentary.

P.S. Actually either of those spreads would be luscious on shortbread cookies. With a cup of strong tea or good coffee . . . what's not to love? (Sorry, just can't stop thinking about this topic. )

Oh! You should have no regrets about your purchase. Even if you (or whomever receives them as gifts) do eat them simply as spreads on breads, they will be wonderful and even more interesting than just "the regular preserves". Once upon a time, a long time ago, before I went on to become a chef that cooked "real food" I was a pastry chef. Linzertorte was the very first thing I ever was told to make, in a professional kitchen. The kitchen was hot and steamy, the dough soft and melty and close to impossible to work with. It was a very hard day. Nevertheless, Linzertorte remains one of my very favorite pastries when made well . . . and I did have a chance to taste the real thing in Vienna one year. I envy you your trip. A good Linzertorte should sort of melt the moment it hits your tongue. There should be no hardness or dryness. Though I have tasted examples similar to which you describe. Bad bad people to make them like this. The recipe for the Marienbadenschitten (I think I spelled that right ) is one I came across a long time ago, too, and have never seen it in print since. I was assured by a waitress who was my pastry-taster and cohort in the then-War To Make More German and Viennese Pastries, who originally hailed from the Marienbad area that indeed, it was something she remembered. I didn't write it down, though. Seems to me that each bite of the preserves will bring a very nice memory of your trip, howsoever you decide to eat them. Enjoy!

Standing on Montague Street, face the river, then turn right and start walking towards the bridge. Almost at the end of Henry Street you'll find Henry's End which was great when I lived there, and which still seems to be getting some pretty good commentary. I second Pan's suggestions on Atlantic Avenue. The spinach pies are always good for a quick snack or lunch or to take home at any of the shops or bakeries (they come in different shapes with different doughs and flavorings sometimes so check out all the different places if you like spinach pie). Brooklyn Heights was my home for twenty years. I loved it. I hope you have the same experience.

They could be used as spreads, of course. But why give up the chance to make Linzertorte? If you make a double batch of Linzertorte dough, you can use the apricot one you purchased to make "Marienbad Schnitten" which uses the same dough in pastries that are made with layers of the baked dough stacked with the apricot preserves spread inbetween. I think that I even like this better than Linzertorte. Which is saying a lot.

Bluefish Run. Now there is something fun. Bluefish travel together, swimming around looking for little fish to eat. Sometimes they find little fish travelling around together, and then the fun begins. The big handsome bluefish attack the little fish, running them right into shore if they are close enough. The water churns and twists and bubbles with the fervor of the attack. And then, of course, any fisherman or fisherwoman nearby gets slightly maddened, too, as the urge rises within one's heart and soul, to pull in a big gorgeous bluefish. One year when I was living on a boat in a boatyard (which had the gall to call itself a marina but which really was a boatyard) in Stamford, Connecticut, we had a bluefish run. The first shout was heard, from some guy working on his boat. "Bluefish! Bluefish!" he cried, as he dropped the tool used to endlessly remove barnacles from the bottoms of boats. His voice echoed through the boatyard, topping off the noises of electric sanders that were being used to smooth decks, rounding off the sounds of radios playing and the laughter that went along with the cases of beer being downed by those who had put away their electric sanders for the day. Within seconds, men came running from every direction. The men that worked in this boatyard were first-generation Portugese-American or second-generation Italian-American. They had no fear of having to be quiet and subdued. They ran to the water, ran onto the docks, ran onto the decks of boats, churning the air of the sunny day themselves with shouts, exclamations, directions, exhortations, waving arms, running legs. Joy was bubbling in an intense and completely enticing way, and the hunt was on. Babbles of voices rose in Portugese and half-Italian mixed with English. The stoners that worked at the boatyard followed along, hitching up their jeans which were always falling down, lighting up a butt or a joint, tossing their hair out of their eyes as they stood to watch. Some blond crew-cut heads rose from the inside of some boats, smiling and bemused at the sudden madness that had seized the day, hands wrapped round gins-and-tonics, and they stood and watched as the scene unfolded. Some of the guys had arrived with fishing poles in hands. Others were running in every direction to try to find them. "Got a pole? Got a pole?" they shouted. I gave them the two poles I had from the boat and then felt worried. How was I going to get my own bluefish? There were not enough poles. Guys started jumping on to the decks of unwatched boats, running below decks to find any poles they could. One guy emerged from below-deck of a larger boat with four poles. He ran by me, handing me a pole. "Grab a piece of bread! Anything! Get that line in the water!" he rapidly tossed to me as he disappeared towards the end of the dock. I don't remember what I grabbed for the hook, just as I can not remember the name of the small fish that were being attacked by the bluefish. I cast the line into the churning water (what a feeling, always, the line heading out with grace into the air) and it landed. Plunk. And it didn't take long, for these fish were in a frenzy. Chop chop chop chop they were biting whatever was in their way in search of a bite of those fine little fish they were chasing down. Jesus. The pole almost got pulled out of my hands the fish was so strong. I must have screamed, and I almost fell off the boat, for some guy came running to give me directions on how to bring in the fish. I did bring it in, and it was a twelve-pound bluefish. Gorgeous. A big fish to clean. Awesome, for someone who had only cleaned smaller fish. If I remember right (fish tales do tend to go awry for some reason) it was about three feet long. I cleaned it, and cut it into steaks and gave lots of it away, and cooked it that night in the tiny oven that was in our Sparkman and Stevens 1939 wooden sailboat, basted with bacon and topped with onions and herbs. It was pretty good. Almost good enough to take away the embarrassment of when the man who owned the fish pole I was using walked up to me after I caught the fish and took a good long stare at his pole - the one that had been whisked out of his boat by my friendly unknown pole-provider. I almost choked as he stared, and said "Someone handed it to me". Mortifying. But then again, this was the time of the bluefish run. A feeding frenzy. For all.

Here is something on Nile perch. I have a feeling, though, that most of those real Nile/Egyptian perch are not exported, but I could be wrong. I'm sort of wondering if the fish is actually a shad. It *is* the season, here, for shad, and to call it an Egyptian perch might be a mere romantic gesture being made (which seems to happen often enough with some varieties of fish . . . ), a nickname being given to a variety that otherwise might not be purchased as readily.

This is a book written mostly for an academic audience, I think, Owen. I happened across it when researching something else in food "history", on Amazon, and ordered it from there. You can find most books that speak of these topics (rather than the more general books on food science, food recipes, food stories i.e. "how to cook" or "what we or they eat") in university libraries. Here is a link (I hope it works) to one section on food history in our university library here. There are lots of other ways to search for these sorts of books, you just have to sort of putter around a bit. The amount and the variety of texts available are astounding, and not the general sort of thing one finds in a bookstore or in a regular sort of library. I'm sure that Sandy will have his own answer for this, but I have to point you to the original discussion that he and I had, that led to my sending this book on to him. It's in this topic. He pointed out to me that I had been thinking in solely a heterosexual way when writing my little story, and that indeed there were other sub-texts in the Gourmet magazine writings, as there are for those who seek them, in many other places. (From Post 14) I honestly hadn't thought about that before. And then the juxtaposition with the fact that I'd just ordered this other book on Amazon was a lucky and interesting happenstance. Maybe, if you are interested, Sandy can send the book on to you after he's finished with it. I like the idea of books being out and about, travelling the world to all sorts of places and all sorts of minds and readings.

I don't know what to think about this really. The larger topic is food, of course, but within that topic are so many sub-topics. The one book speaks of food preparation and/or of food science. The other book speaks of food sociology and/or culture. In that sense, the books may be thought to be on different topics with one overall link, therefore to be "indexed" under different headings, therefore the implication would be that the title would not be thought to create the implicit tension you describe. But it would take a librarian knowledgeable about indexing to really know this. Maybe there is one that will read this and comment. Not that the way a book is indexed in a library system always fully relates to what is felt or seen by the reader out in the "real world", of course. I have to go back to thinking of how one is supposed to treat information used in formal writing, i.e., if it is considered to be "general knowledge" one does not have to find an authority to name as source within the bibliography, whereas if it is not considered "general knowledge" or the idea or concept or quote does directly spring from a known source that has shaped it in some way to their own idea, then it should be credited. Maybe "secret" this or that was considered a general enough phrase to allow for the omission of credit in this case . . .(?)