ivan

That's why we put the bourbon in the julep -- you never know who's been peeing on the mint.

I was a young lad, very recently in the US, in my first year of college, when an article I wrote for the college newspaper attracted the attention of a professor. The article had something to do with my experiences in the erstwhile USSR, and this professor found me one day at the newspaper office, and invited me to dinner at his home. He said he was fascinated by my experiences, and wanted to hear all about them. I'm tempted at this point to write that the professor turned out to be a cannibal, and I was slotted as the main course -- or better yet, a side dish -- but that would be a lie. It was actually far worse. His house was cavernous, sternly decorated with a degree of neatness that can only be achieved through a lack of things to strew about. The rooms were dark and gloomy, and echoed slightly. Nothing looked sat-on. The man himself was tall and wan, with a slight quaver in his voice. His wife was the same, as I recall. Their daughter was pretty, and her unexpected presence made me severely self-conscious. I don't recall sitting down anywhere but at the dining table. As we ate, we took turns speaking. There was much throat-clearing and coughing. There were protracted silences during which I could hear food being chewed. About half-way through the meal, there was a deciding moment, after which the evening coalesced into an unmitigated disaster. That moment occurred after the professor revealed the true purpose behind his invitation: he was hoping to recruit me as a speaker at some upcoming Amnesty International meetings. I had to ask him to explain what Amnesty International was -- as I mentioned, I was pretty fresh off the old boat, and AI was not exactly on every Soviet's lips back then. He explained, adding, "We're particularly interested in any insight you may have, as a first-hand observer, into the Soviets' use of torture to intimidate incarcerated dissidents," or something to that effect. I looked at him uncomprehendingly, and said, "We don't jail or torture dissidents. That's Western propaganda." That was the deciding moment I spoke of earlier. Anyway, when we sat down at the table (a large black polished slab more suitable for a board room), before each of us was a small heap of iceberg lettuce leaves on plates. Bottled dressing was passed. After the salad was dispensed with, "Daddy" excused himself to "cook the steaks". Some time later, the "steaks" arrived. They were thin and cooked to the point of curling into small leathery bowls. There was nothing else on the plate. Evidently, the potato or pea had not been born that was worthy of sharing the limelight with "Daddy's" "steaks". My politics have become more informed since those days, and I concede I may have been a tad inaccurate on that "we don't jail or torture dissidents" bit, but my assessment of that meal has not changed. It sucked bad.

I agree, mainly because that's what I said back on page 41, except you said it much better and with more words. But that's exactly why RB's endorsement is wrong: he's not endorsing a sandwich, however healthy and toothsome it may be; he's endorsing Buger King, whopper, fries and all.

... and asks for your order. After telling you his name.

Positively addictive...

I know this has been said here before, but this thread makes me hungry.

Big reds, the bigger the better. Especially earthy, terroirist bordeaux, if they're still relevant.

If Freud were alive today, he'd endorse Burger King. You doing an Andre Breton imitation now, Ivan? No! Andre Breton adored Freud. I don't, although if Freud were to endorse a Burger King sandwich, I'd deffinitely try it on account of Freud being so famous.

you haven't seen my wine. No. May I?

If Freud were alive today, he'd endorse Burger King.

Or bio-terroirism.

Now THAT would be bio-terrorism.

but you'll concede that there *will* be a difference, yes? Ok, I'll concede more than that: some wines would be improved. But not any wine you'd have in your possession, of course.

Don't use a metal pipe -- you can get a nasty shock. Or, worse, the metal might react with the wine, changing its flavor.

I think he's right.

Yes, and sometimes words are actions. I've been preaching about the evil of fast food, and the benefits of from-scratch (as opposed to frozen entrees) cooking for many years. I can be insufferable at times. However, I've hit chords and inspired people, as well. The most unfortunate aspect of RB's endorsement is that it comes at a time when it is easier than ever before to eat well. As eaters, we are more informed, and as consumers, we have broad horizons of ingredients opening before us. This also goes for inexpensive and convenient restaurants -- little ethnic joints are springing up like mushrooms in suburbs everywhere. I can buy a Banh Mi and coffee for $3 at strip malls that, just five years ago, had little more to offer than a Popeye's and a Denny's. I think chains like BK are feeling the pinch, and need to position themselves within this broad food movement. Bayless somehow rationalized himself into becoming their patsy. This is especially heartbreaking, because I like and admire him, and share his enthusiasm for Mexican cuisine. Which is why it was hard for me to take a stand on this. But now, after reading this thread, when someone says to me, in awed tones, "Woah -- Rick Bayless says those BK sammiches are good," I straighten my back, level my gaze and reply, "Rick Bayless can..." Well, you know the rest.

Thought governs action. History's most world-changing revolutions were born in someone's heads, and were discussed to death before any action was taken. I've personally done little to support the fast food industry, although without abstaining completely. Unfortunately for my opinion of Mr. Balefull's endorsement, I consider Burger King sort of bottom rung on a not very tall ladder, but I tempered my judgement and tried to be objective. Reading through this thread, however, pushed me off the fence. Now I think RB's endorsement is not a good thing. I'm nobody famous, so a PSA featuring my humble mug would elicit little more than shrugs, but I am a chatterbox after a few glasses. I'll tell two friends, and they'll tell two friends, and so on, and so on, and before you know it, we'll be eating cheeseburgers in paradise, if I have anything to say about it.

Well, I've wavered on this issue -- my libertarian half says, "Bailfull has a right to make money any legal way he wants, and so does BK... If you don't like it, don't eat there...". My commie half says, as usual, "Arrest him without a warrant in the middle of the night." But bourdain's point about everything contributing either to the good or the bad in the universe is an undeniable truth (one which the ancient Hebrews were mindfull of, as well), and forms a sturdy basis for a moral code. In that light, everything is a moral issue. You can choose to ignore it, but it's there: RB did a bad thing. He contributed to the ill, rather than the good. He should be called on it by his peers. So, by discussing this situation on the web, bourdain settled the issue in my mind, which is certainly working toward change.

Have you tried drinking out of it? 750 ml = no need for refills.

0.0075%. Not bad. That doesn't include bodily harm, however.

I edited that part out in the name of brevity. One thing I might add, however, is that my success with the turkey has inspired me to attempt same technique vis a vis chicken, duck, whole catfish or even steak. I will report any findings.

Well, I was inspired by Tommy's success, and decided to give the technique the old trial run a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving. I will, as expected, presently launch into an exhaustive account of the proceedings, but first I should note that, paradoxically, my own resounding success in this venture served to convince me that this technique, while acceptable and possibly desirable under any normal circumstance, should be avoided like the plague on the very day that most red-blooded Americans would most be inclined to employ it. Having a cauldron of boiling oil foaming and popping in the middle of the croquet lawn on Thanksgiving Day, what with the concomitant inebriated uncles, octogenerian perambulators, officious in-laws and assortment of ferral urchins, is positively asking for a visit from the good old neighborhood paramedics, not to mention the irreparable neural damage caused by yours truly spending the entire day anticipating imminent disaster instead of contentedly basking in the warmth of adoring relatives while simultaneously becoming thoroughly sozzled. In other words, deep-frying a turkey on Thanksgiving Day is best enjoyed in solitude. But back to my account. I took to heart fifi's admonitions, and spared no pains in observing every conceivable safety rule. So, after brining the bird for a fortnight and subsequently injecting all manner of marinades and bottled tobascos under skin, I was ready to cook. First and foremost, preparation of the cooking area is of paramount importance. While I personally found the power and convenience of a bulldozer indispensable, I suppose a medium-sized shovel brigade would suffice, provided it was an industrious and energetic medium-sized shovel brigade. Clear the area of any extreneous objects (e.g. rakes) and protruberances. Spread sand or kitty litter over a 2-acre area. Place cooker in middle. Stand well away from the cauldron when igniting the apparatus, in case it explodes and kills you. It is wise to check for gas leakages before attempting ignition; I employed the services of a particularly co-operative urchin -- for a dollar he inspected my rig, giving it the old lighted-match test. All was well. Every sensible turkey-frier knows that the proper tools make the chef. Protective armor is a must. The much-maligned asbestos long-johns, while possibly posing an inconveniently early demise in the long run, are an absolute life-saver in the short run. I wore two pair. Care must be taken in lifting the incinerated bird out of the cauldron of boiling oil lest one be put off-balance by the weight of the bird, causing one to topple directly into said cauldron. I used a medium-sized crane. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR RIG UNEXTINGUISHED. There may occur an accident, resulting in the death of several people, unless you put out all flames surrounding your cauldron of boiling oil. There! Now your turkey is done. Cleanup is a breeze if you have, as I did, the foresight to retain the bulldozer (or shovel-brigade, as it were) for an extra day. With cleanup done, the satisfaction of a job well-done will swell the breast and inspire the soul, bolstering resolve to replant and rebuild. At this point you might in all fairness ask, "What about the turkey?" Yes, the turkey. Its skin, indeed, was unusually crispy. A good deal of moisture was preserved in the meat. All in all, those who were fortunate enough to survive the fire and did not inhale undue amounts of smoke claimed to enjoy the turkey tremendously. But if you ask me, it tasted like ham.

Hmm, what happens when the amount he owes for lunch exceeds the $20?(!) A-HA! That's our secret men's loophole! You should've seen everyone's faces when I tried that one out at the French Laundry.

Not to spoil your appetite, but the idea of dining with Rasputin should not be in the least entertaining. Rasputin was known for his overpowering smell from bathing rarely and his manners never progressed beyond eating with his fingers. His “pets,” or shall I say most passionate devotees, didn’t seem to object cleansing his hands by licking his fingers. That sounds like some of the frat boys I used to know in college. They licked your fingers?

I agree with your point, but my hope is that parents use water to water down the wine. Adding Sprite to wine doesn't just water it down, but adulterates it beyond recognition. The idea is to teach young-uns respect for and appreciation of wine, not mask its flavor with sugary soft drinks. Now, burbon is a whole different story.