mags

I think that's pretty harsh, Comfort Me. First, in demanding a "straight answer" to your question, you appear to be suggesting that Uzay, or other staffers at Rocco's, have somehow been prevaricating, that they are somehow responsible for your discomfort with a format that straddles the line between pure documentary and scripted drama. (Of course, even "pure documentary" isn't entirely objective; you're always going to be watching the cut that the director/producer has determined is most illustrative of the point they're trying to make, plus you're always going to have to cope with the fact that the camera's subjects -- assuming they're people and not, say, penguins -- will at least unconciously and most likely consciously alter their behavior somewhat in order to play to the camera. In the case of Uzay and his colleagues -- who are both actors and servers -- that's likely to mean angling for maximum camera-time.) At any rate, why is it Uzay's job to clarify for you the extent to which the show is or isn't scripted? Second, what's so terrible about being both an actor and a server? Plenty of people -- including both good actors and good servers -- have been both. And throughout history, thousands (maybe millions) of artists of every stripe have held down "day jobs" (or "night jobs," in the case of actors who need their days free for auditions) while trying to make it in their chosen fields. Melville was a customs inspector, for Chrissake. James Joyce was an English teacher. And Whoopi Goldberg, for that matter, worked in a mortuary. Why is this somehow worthy of such contempt? Finally...well, I'm just mystified as to the source of your unpleasantness. Uzay and his colleagues presumably needed jobs. They were offered jobs that provided not only paychecks but also the opportunity to be seen regularly on network television -- a kind of heaven-sent combo for anyone who is trying simultaneously to pay the rent and attract the attention of casting-directors. Particularly given that A) Rocco had a strong reputation going in, suggesting that the restaurant had a good chance of success, and B) that the tv exposure was likely to increase business at the restaurant, thus increasing its chances of success, they would have been nuts NOT to take the jobs. Why does their having taken the jobs somehow equate with shitting where they eat? At worst, IMO, they may be guilty of a certain naivete, in believing -- perhaps -- that the show's producers would display them in a favorable light. But why does naivete deserve such a scathing attack? And for what it's worth, I wasn't laughing at the "dehomosexualization" comment either.

I certainly understand your skepticism about Whey Low. All I can tell you is that when I use it, it does not appear to affect my being in ketosis. I don't often make sweets for myself, though when I do, I'm apt to use a mix of Whey Low with either liquid Splenda -- very hard to get, I know -- or Erythritol, to minimize any potential problems and to cut the overall carb-count. However, when I'm making desserts that I plan to share with other people, I use straight Whey Low, and have found that it is completely, and I mean COMPLETELY indistiguishable from sugar. Again, since I really don't understand the science that's posted on the Whey Low site, all I have is my own experience -- and those of others I've spoken with online -- to go by, but for me, the claims seem to bear out. I'm hardly a big fan of sugar alcohols, for just the reasons you cite. And in general, from a dietary perspective, I think that cutting down on sweets, WHATEVER they're sweetened with, is probably the best idea. Because I don't eat a lot of sweets, I feel comfortable using Whey Low (and to some extent, sugar alcohols) in the sweets I do make. People who want to make treats or desserts a daily thing may wish to make different accommodations. For me, very simply, a dessert made with Splenda (or, God help me, Equal or Brown Sugar Twin or Sweet 'n Low) isn't worth eating.

Bean, have you thought about getting screens for the windows? That's what I'm doing, to prevent the kitty-trying-to-fly scenario. Actually, I love my apartment, irritating kitchen and all. The skylights were put in when the building was built in the early 19th century, as a one-family house (I have another one in the bathroom). But in the 1950s, I think -- maybe earlier -- the building was broken up into apartments, and they did a medium-crappy job, with the result that I have these two weird skylights that don't open, and both fireplaces -- fancy, with carved plaster mantles, one in the bedroom and one in the living room -- are in really odd places, squinched over by the walls, rather than in the centers of the rooms. But because it's the attic, the ceilings slope in an endearing and decidedly non-standard-Manhattan-box sort of way, and in my living room, I have two windows and two funky sort of porthole things. Really, if I could only change one thing about the place, it would involve getting some kind of ventilation in the kitchen. I do sort of miss my old place, which had a nice terrace that looked into a garden, and a window in the kitchen, but the apartment in total was the size of a small sandwich, so this is a big step up. But I will look into getting either a replacement filter or replacing the whole damn fan aparatus, which dates from, I'm guessing, the Hoover administration. Edited to note that when I become fabulously wealthy, I will buy the apartment below me, with the aforementioned terrace, and turn at least half the sandwich into a kitchen.

I got a dishwasher, what I don't got is a roof. But yeah, I think I will see about changing the filter. This unit is so ancient I'm afraid they may not make replacement parts anymore, though. What really kills me is that the kitchen has a skylight in it. Nice large-ish skylight. Lets in plenty of light, which is swell. But does not allow any air in -- or out.

Ummmm, you might want to check out the correction in tomorrow's (May 6) Times. Perhaps somebody there is a lurker here.

I live in what used to be the servants' quarters (read: the attic) of a brownstown in lower Manhattan. Love my apartment, but the kitchen has ZERO ventilation -- no window, no vent for the stove, nada. The stove does feature this ancient overhead "filter" unit, which makes an impressive jet-plane-taking-off noise and terrifies the kitties, but otherwise doesn't seem to do much. Am I just SOL? Does anybody make filters that actually DO do something -- you know, like prevent my walls and books -- in a 20-foot radius -- from being festooned with large orange grease-bloblets every time I fry an egg? I'm not bothered about smells; I LIKE cooking smells, and anyone who doesn't isn't invited to tea. But it would be very delightful to be able to, say, pan-fry a steak in a cast-iron pan without having to worry that the fire department is going to show up any minute; we're talking NO outlet for the smoke. Any ideas?

Um, with all due respect, have you considered the possibility that there were some Secret Lesbians -- you know, lesbians you didn't recognize as lesbians -- who opted for medium-rare? Unless you made a habit of explicitly surveying your guests' sexual preferences, I'm not sure you have any real statistical significance here.

FWIW, Stevia has a licorice-taste that -- unless you like licorice a lot (which I don't) -- can be very unpleasant. I don't like straight Splenda (according to the manufacturer, something like 5% of the population perceives a "flat" or "metallic" taste -- that would be me), but I find it works ok mixed with sugar-alcohol (which will also help in caramelization, since Splenda on its doesn't caramelize. As always, I beat the drum for Whey Low, which is by FAR my preferred articifical sweetener, in that it tastes and (largely) functions exactly like sugar, including caramelization and all the syruppy steps leading up to it. Brown Sugar Twin, which you may have seen in grocery stores, is vile, IMO, and particularly unpleasant when heated, as it's not heat-stable, and its sweetening properties, such as they are, will break down. If you want brown sugar, a much better bet would be either A) Whey Low Gold, B) Nature Sweet Gold (this is granulated maltitol -- a sugar alcohol -- treated to taste like brown sugar), or whatever white-sugar replacement you're happy with, combined with a small amount of blackstrap molasses. Nature Sweet is made by Steel's, and is available online (and perhaps at some grocery stores -- I've heard rumors of WalMart carrying it). Whey Low, to the best of my knowledge, is available only online, from the manufacturer, at WheyLow.com. Nope, I have no financial connection to either of these companies. But I have done a fair amount of journalistic poking around in the world of artificial sweeteners.

I'd highly, HIGHLY recommend Laura Shapiro's "Perfection Salad," even though in description -- it's essentially a social history of the development of "home economics" in the U.S. from the mid-19th century through the 1930s or so -- it will sound like a crashing bore. She talks a lot about food symbolism (pastries and sweets were thought to be "feminine," for instance, and associated with a certain spiritual purity to which women were imagined to have greater access), about the relationship between early feminism and the "professionalization" of cooking, about the desire to control both food and appetite that's exemplified in certain kinds of serving arrangements (coralling that "messy" stew, for example, in a tidy ring of mashed potato). It's really quite wonderful, and I've actually read it twice. Recently reissued in trade paperback.

I think all criticism, all writing, and all analysis of others (and their writing) inevitably proceeds from a particular POV. I'd venture, for example, that John Simon's personal distaste for women is made very clear by his reviews of plays in which they have the misfortune (unless they're young and er...winsome) to appear. And that analysis of mine, by turn, is inevitably rooted in my being a feminist and having been an actress, and thus perhaps hyper-sensitive to what I view as Mr. Simon's misogyny. But I don't know why this phenomenon -- by which the reviewer's personality is revealed more coherently than that value of what he/she is reviewing -- should be any stronger with regard to personal essays than to anything else. Outside of the grayest of journalism (and even that should, perhaps, not be excepted), an author's voice and views and assumptions are usually plain on the page; most of the time, a reader has nothing to evaluate beyond the persona that's presented. By which I mean that I don't know Ms. Hesser personally, and can only react to the "Amanda Hesser" that she presented in the book; I believe my reaction would have been identical if A) she had called the character Honoria Glossop, or B) if the book had been presented as fiction. In other words, I find "Amanda Hesser" somewhat controlling, adolescent, and insecure; about Amanda Hesser (no quotes) I can only say she's an engaging writer with a nice turn of phrase and some appealing-looking recipes.

Nah, Jinmyo, the denoument is pretty much "Reader, I married him." That said, the one encouraging note in the book -- at least as I read it -- is that at the wedding, everybody spontaneously breaks into the Hora. Ms. Hesser notes that "We're not Jewish" (something of an understatement, that) but then -- boldly, courageously, with a new-found willingness to spit in the eye of the appropriate -- adds "but so what?" Despite the snottiness, I mean what I say here: I DID find that an encouraging note, an indication that The Perfect and The Appropriate had somehow managed to loosen their grip a bit. Oh my gosh....I just figured out the objective correlative here! Okokok, think back some.....jeez, 20 years or so, to "Risky Business," the movie that made Tom Cruise a star. Teenage Tom, as consumed with pleasing his parents and getting into Princeton as he is consumed with lust (for Rebecca De Mornay, for the babysitter up the street, for doughnut holes), has a reprobate teenage pal -- a sort of Jack Black in training -- who smokes cigars, cheats at poker, and is probably (20-odd years later) an enormously successful Hollywood agent. Said Pal is trying to convince Goody Two Shoes Tom to do one of the various naughty things he winds up indulging in -- swiping (and then totaling) his father's expensive car, arranging to lose his virginity to a hooker, establishing a temporary brothel in his parents' suburban home -- and by way of encouragement, Pal says "Sometimes you have to say 'What the fuck.'" These words of wisdom clearly resonate with Tom, since he then goes on to swipe the car and get naughtier from there. And I think Ms. Hesser's "so what?" moment when doing the Hora has the same kind of resonence. So why am I fond of "Risky Business" -- for all its horrendous politics -- and bugged by "Mr. Latte"? Well, Tom Cruise's "What the fuck" moment occurs at the BEGINNING of the movie; it's followed by his increasing embrace of the decidedly inappropriate. Ms. Hesser's "But so what?" moment occurs at the END of her movie. It's as though we were watching "Ricky Business" and all we got was two hours of how anxious Tom is to please his parents and get into an Ivy League college. There is, as the story-boys say, no character arc. And ultimately I'd be much more interested in reading about how Ms. Hesser copes with her newfound urge to relax the standards a bit than I am in reading about her never-questioned passion to uphold them.

[blink] Why on earth would you think that "The Restaurant" -- never mind playing to the cameras -- has much to do with Manhattan, or is any way exclusive to Manhattan?

Ah, see, for me, the ends are where it's at. The middle is just for mopping up eggs.

I do use it to cook vegetables, especially cauliflower and broccoli. And this past week I had to make canapes for a gigantic party, and opted for a Barbara Kafka recipe that involves microwaved beef tenderloin. I know, sounds revolting, but in fact it was terrific -- the meat was juicy and flavorfull even when I mistimed one batch and pulled it out quite a bit past medium-rare. I also used it for a Kafka recipe for pork pate (less successful) and yet another Kafka recipe for apricot "chutney," which I found ass-achingly sweet, though folks at the party were squabbling over the leftovers. This was far and away the most cooking I've ever done in the microwave, and I gotta say, it was a real godsend. A helluva lot less mess and fuss than I would have had to deal with had I used my stove to make the same things, and -- aside from the pate, which I just chalk up to a mediocre recipe -- I don't think the stuff would have turned out any better.

There were all kinds of things that my mother tortured to death when I was a kid -- vegetables, fish, and veal stew top the list. It wasn't until I was in my 30s that I realized I actually liked them, and that the problem lay with my mother's versions, not with the stuff itself. As an adult, I keep a treasured list of Food I Don't Like. It is the corollary list to Expensive Things I Don't Want. Sadly, both lists are very short.

Ahem. Some people like it charred and blackened. But actually, I think I will steal the two-pans idea. Would you like a new nick? We could call you Owen Two-Pans. It could be your Mob Name.

I have a dear friend who's a musicologist, and whenever I go to one of her big dinner parties, I seem to get stuck at the end with all her friends from grad school, who are whooping it up with "inside music" (like inside baseball) jokes that have punch lines like "She thought he played the French HORN!!!!!!" And everybody around me collapses in laughter and I just sit there smiling politely, like a Japanese tourist at a Jackie Mason concert.

I agree about both the too few onions and the too much port. Also, after having made two batches, I've found that timing is very much related to how thin I slice them. For my first batch, I sliced my onions by hand, and that batch took a lot longer than the second batch, for which I used the mandoline (meaning that the slices were a lot thinner). Actually, I lost a fair amount of the second batch to char, because I had assumed the timing would be the same, and in fact, in less than the time that the first batch had needed, about 1/3 of the second batch had turned to charcoal. For what it's worth, the confit was fabulous cold (room temp). I used it as a garnish on some sliced-steak canapes, and it rocked.

Nono, Jean, you don't put the tuna salad in a cup of tea. That WOULD be horrible. You may, if you like, drink a cup of tea WITH your tuna salad sandwich, but that's an entirely different kettle of fish.

Ahhh, I could tell you about people who gush on and on about how they'd love to open a bookstore. How jolly it must be, just sitting around all day drinking coffee from handmade mugs and discussing literature. <hysterical laughter induces coughing fit>

Well, that seems painfully obvious at this point. Management can't work without a monthly P&L. However, they have no right to see the monthly Balance Statement unless they have a financial stake in the operation. Don't confuse the two. PJ Hunh? Don't confuse me with someone who confused the two. I didn't say anything about the balance statement or the P&L, nor do I care about them; my question about Rocco's business experience was a function of my wondering whether he had any notion of what he was getting himself into, or whether he imagined his role consisted of taking a blank check, doing what he liked with it, and smiling pretty for the cameras. Additionally, I was wondering why Choderow hadn't written into the contract that Rocco would spend X amount of time at the restaurant. And then I thought, well, maybe he didn't include it in the contract because he assumed that Rocco knew what it meant to run a business. But if Rocco DIDN"T know -- and sorry this is getting so convoluted -- then this whole thing may just be a case of expectations that were insufficiently spelled out, on both sides. If that's the case, if Rocco really didn't know that he needed to be spending more time at the restaurant, then Choderow owns a good part of the responsibility for this fiasco. He took on a neophyte as a partner and expected him to behave like an experienced businessman.

I'm with you on the sauces-for-artichokes thing. And listen, can someone explain to me the appeal of stuffed artichokes? I mean, I understand stuffing the cavity left after you yank out the choke, but the stuffing-between-the-leaves thing? You pull out the leaf and the stuffing falls on the plate, right? Am I missing something?

Am I correct in remembering that Rocco had never run a business before? Or even had an ownership stake?

Which, if you say it really fast and sort of slurred, sounds kind of like "pig out, oh" -- which is entirely appropriate in context.