bourdain

I'm doing an overnite in John Waters's favorite city and--along with a crony--will be looking for some fine, casual food. Don't want the "best" restaurant in town. Not the hottest. No view necessary. Good local grub--seafood maybe..a townie-only place would be nice. Would really appreciate some suggestions. Hitting Club Charles after so close would be nice.

Yeah. Very likely, I'd say.

OUCH!! Mea culpa. And boy, was I wrong. Hesser stepped into the shit fast, frequently--and big time. Not disclosing that the chef of the restaurant you're reviewing lavishly blurbed your book when you're the critic for THE NEW YORK TIMES is a muuuch bigger deal than the usual log-rolling ( an offense, I should disclose here and now--of which I am myself frequently guilty*). By the standards of the Times , however, it's a serious "oversight". To argue that those standards have been "eroded" by Blair etc. or other perceived factors does not mitigate the facts. The Times don't LIKE printing editor's notes. It's embarrassing for them. Fat Guy makes it sound like a vindictive public ass-whupping, a gratuitous humiliation of a loyal staffer.When the Times print an editor's note like that they know they open themselves up to the kind of controversy they try very hard to avoid That they chose to publicly flagellate themselves (along with Hesser) is--to my mind, infinitely preferable to leaving that job to the Post or Poynter. So good, appropriate and fair--if late-- reaction by the Times in my opinion. I agree with Fat Guy that the earlier "drink at Asiate but eat at Jean Georges" reference--and the Curious Case of The Disappearing Kunz are perhaps more fruitful ground for criticism. In any case, I plead mea culpa in making the case for Hesser as permanent critic. In spite of the fact that she wrote a long ago piece for Slate which was less than charitable to Kitchen Confidential (something I guess I should also cop to here), and the rotten Latte stuff--and the apparent absence of any kind of a sense of humor, I thought she'd be good at the job, deserved it--would do it well. She hasn't. The prose has been wretched. And the whole Vong affair, if nothing else, sure gives the appearance--if nothing else-- of being "bent". I'm beginning to agree with the "get somebody from out of town" contingent. As long as it's not the San Francisco guy. Appendix: Common Examples of Log-Rolling (and my varying complicity in same) * You blurb me? I blurb you. ( Done it) * I like you personally AND I like your food? I say so in print. Often. (Done it--often. Meant every word--but still.) * You're my pal and my last meal at your place sucked? I'll probably shut up about it--unless it keeps happening. ( Done that too--but there's a limit) * I owe you a big one but I hate your food. So I avoid the whole subject of your restaurant unless pressed. ( Yeah..I hate when that happens. I'm sure I've done it.) * Become friends with you AFTER I've reviewed your book--or written about your restaurant--not having known you before? ( This, too has happened) Conclusion? I should never write restaurant criticism for ANYONE--much less the Times. In fact, if I write ANYTHING on restaurants for the Times, my copy should be looked at extra hard by editorial staff (as it has been). Or my relationship to subject loudly and explicitly made apparent in print. (As has happened). Hesser was a bad choice. I backed the wrong pony.

From the marvelous (and often astonishingly heartfelt) "AA GILL IS AWAY": " It's my voice, my view, my opinion. And just as no one's opinion is worth more than mine, so mine is worth no more than anyone else's. I'm often accused of being contentious. I suppose predictably and rather arrogantly I take that as a compliment. If my articles cause raised blood pressure, then good -- that's what first person journalism is for. We hacks do opposition. But while they may be the start of the argument, they're never the last word. There is no last word. No definitive view. The older I get the more I see, the more I'm convinced about nothing at all. Opinions, prejudices, theories and revelations are just the social and intellectual weather under which we live."

Missing from the above posts is the observation that BK's "we're returning to our roots" angle is clearly the latest of a number of floundering attempts to rescue a shrivelling brand. They're running scared: closing stores by the score, doing their best to "buy" credibility (ie: Bayless gambit and return of founder), tweaking the menu...All signs of a desperately ill company in decline. Which is, of course, a good thing. Our neighborhoods will be better places without their ugly, once-ubiquitous logo. They can smear "real" mayo on whatever they like. Chop boatloads of fresh onions in their buffalo choppers (then hold them until sour in vast plastic trays). It's still a shit burger (however marginally "better" than Mickey D's). That they are significantly less loved than they used to be is a heartening development. There's blood in the water. Today the King. Tomorrow the Clown.

During a visit to noted physician, Dr. Nick Riviera, seeking advice on getting fat(so as to qualify for disability), Homer is told that when in doubt about suitable foods, he should rub a piece of paper against the item: "If it makes it clear so you can see right through it, it's your window to weight gain!" Lisa trying to explain why neither ham, bacon or pork chops qualify as vegetables: Lisa: "Dad! They're all from the same animal!" Homer: "Sure, Lisa...a magical animal....." Big Tony, befuddled by the overreaction to his new dairy operation: " Everybody likes rats..Why don't they like the rats' milk?" I also enjoyed the "Texas Cheescake Depository" restaurant. Mo's family restaurant venture. The conveyor belts leading to the same kitchen from all the Squid Port ethnic restaurants. Skittlebrau. Anything Lunch Lady Doris says...The priceless Troy McClure educational short explaining the meat industry. "He'd kill you if he could" ..."ToMacco"...James Woods scraping out the microwave at the Kwikie Mart..."Mmmm...America Balls!" ... And nothing to do with food--but the "Electric Needle Hut" at the leper colony .

I'm talking about Kitchen Memoirs with Michael Ruhlman, Friday morning 10:30 on the 23rd April. Been a long time since I've been to Bawlmer...but I suspect I'll be drinking my dinner at Club Charles.

Best quality fish I've ever experienced. If he can't get it as fresh as he likes? He doesn't serve it. (He had no uni, for instance). I don't know where or how he gets his tuna--but it was far, far superior to anything I've ever even seen.

Mmmmm....steamers....

One drinks sake. And nothing but. My friend picked a good Junmai--and we stuck with it. We hit the stuff pretty hard and yet dinner for two (even with two additional plates of tuna) came to less than 900--with tip. No dessert offered. The idea never occured to me. Just tea.

No dessert.

And let me stress this again. Masa is CHEAP at the price. It's a freaking DEAL. There's no gouging, no subtle add-ons (like overpriced water), no upselling, no attitude. Masa prepares sushi (and his cooked dishes) very simply--with minimal hand movements. The single finished pieces of fish he places on the unadorned stone ware actually relax onto the rice in front of your eyes--as if sighing. This is NOT a restaurant for the beautiful people--or for the very wealthy. This is a restaurant for people who really really REALLY like fish (and great ingredients) -and are willing to pay for them. You get what you pay for (more than you pay for in my opinion)--and what you get is the very best. Even if you make 300 dollars a week as a rookie prep cook, I urge you to go. Go!Fuck Con Ed. Let em shut off the cable. Who cares if Junior needs bail money? The landlord can wait. Go. Now.

We were there from 9:30 until midnite. Much of that time alone at the bar--right in the cockpit--watching Masa do his thing. There were two small private rooms just off to the right, who kept getting platters of sushi sent over; but sitting at the bar is clearly the way to go. It's a "Holy SHIT!!" meal. Actually, it's a "Hoooooooly Shiiit!" meal--almost from the first seconds. Just Masa, a knife, a few pieces of fish, a stunningly simple charcoal grill set-up. Masa works with an orange, a plane grater, a few small crocks of ingredients, a thick knob of fresh wasabi root. Other ingredients (like a fat black truffle) appear after whispered instructions to his assistants. Masa was very friendly, even talkative after the meal and is absolutely befuddled by the attention payed to the price. I can tell you that I was silently totalling up probable food cost per plate while I watched him work--and it must be astronomical. The place must be run on the thinnest of margins. Masa himself works every shift, makes every meal personally--right in front of you. Staffing is bare miminum--and includes his wife. Watching as he heaped staggering amounts of ethereal 0-toro into a single nori roll, I positively shuddered. It's a chills down the spine experience, believe me. His fish--the likes of which I have never seen--even in Tokyo-- is flown in from Tsukiji. I could sit there all night--just looking at the casually deposited slabs of fat-rippled tuna.. The seaweed, I can only imagine the cost. The single piece of wasabi he was wielding--alone--was worth nearly a hundred bucks. He's not shy with the caviar, truffles or foie. As advertised, there is minimal explanation of what you're eating--usually a one-word comment. Question: "Unagi?" Answer: "Anago!" When I told the chef that I planned to return and eat some of everything in the house, that I wanted to come in some day and wipe out his entire supply he told me I had tough competition in the enthusiasm department: A customer in LA brought in his teenage son for his birthday. This thin young man proceeded to eat well OVER 80 (!!) pieces of sushi. I can well understand.

I have been to the mountain top. I have seen......things. Everything is different now. Let me describe the scene: You enter through a non-descript door on the 4th floor of an empty,nowheresville mall. Standard push-it-out-of-the-way hanging. A door. One long, utterly gorgeous monster beam of raw, blonde wood. The kind of wood you want to sniff for a while. You want to rub your cheek along its warm, unblemished surface..build a fucking house out of it. You never want to see another piece of wood that isn't THIS piece of wood. About 12 seats at a sushi bar type set-up. The space behind the bar is as roomy as the customer side. Green bamboo trunks floor to ceiling (this is the food prep side) LOTS of luxuriously extra space. There's nothing on the bar but chopsticks and a napkin. NOTHING. Not a glass, a condiment, nothing. No glass fish display either. 2 blocks of ice, 2 working trays of hunks of fish. which the chef grabs out of. As your reservation was for 9:30, you and your friend are quickly the only customers. It's just you two, and Masa, directly in front of you, with an assistant on each side. And you KNOW--with absolutely Biblical certainty that at this precise moment, noone, anywhere on this planet is eating better than you. There is NO garnish at Masa. Zero. Not the slightest attempt to pretty up, distract, improve on or embellish what is clearly--from the second you see it--or put it in your mouth, the asbolute finest raw ingredient available anywhere on earth. If o-toro tuna so pale and beautifully rippled, so buttery and unctuous as this does not immediately make clear why you're paying big bucks , than you will never understand even the simplest movements of the universe. Hunks of foie gras, dunked "shabu shabu" style in broth...raw tuna with dictator-sized heaps of caviar...the aforementioned tuna--alone worth dragging a rusty blade across your best friend's throat. Monkfish with black truffles... 2nd half of the meal eaten with the hands.....Sea eel. Raw, sweet sweet baby shrimp...every piece of sushi like experiencing it for the first time. Everything served on ultra rustic handmade pottery ( I believe made by the chef). It is the most puritanically ingredient-driven meal I've ever had. Ingredient ingredient ingredient. Put all thoughts of cost right out of your head, because no restaurant has ever been less concerned with justifying its prices. Res Ipsa Loquitor is their policy. The thing speaks for itself. And it does. Any price you pay for the full-on Masa experience is a STEAL . This is a once-in-a-lifetime, tell-the-kids-about-it experience. These are ingredients that may well not EXIST in a decade or two--at any price. And I should point out that Masa had no fucking idea who I was--and couldn't have cared less in any case. If you're willing to: a)Shell out the money.. b)Smile. And c)enjoy? You'll have the same experience. Beg, borrow, steal...max out the cards...dip into the kids' college fund..crawl naked across broken glass...stick up a liquor store...make a deal with Jeffrey Chodorow--ANYTHING to experience this.

Late drinks at Snake and Jake's.

I eat there tonight. I quiver with anticipation.

Solution: Proceed as normal for the prime rib--cooking it properly. The lovely, medium rare leftovers will make delightful sandwiches. Or serve it cold the next day with horseradish sauce. For your misguided well-done eating friends, simply throw a small, relatively flavorless supermarket roast of lean eye-round into the oven--and cook the living shit out of it. They won't know the difference. Then revise your guest list for next time.

Rub roast well with freshly cracked black pepper and sea salt. ONLY. Nix on mustard, paprika, rosemary or any other adulterants. Put that shit on your gigot. Sear on stovetop in oil and butter, making sure to brown all sides. Throw roast (elevated from bottom of pan with a little mirepoix) into a 300-325 degree oven and cook until bleeding rare. Use a thermometer if you must--but don't be jabbing that thing every ten minutes. Remove from oven AND ALLOW TO REST for 20 minutes. This is the absolutely critical time. The only time in a decade ( that I can recall at this moment) that I have had to resort to physical violence in a kitchen was when our cretinous former butcher whacked an end cut off my just-emerged rib roast. It is alleged that I went out to the butcher shop (in our dining room) and threw a quiche at him. This was, to my mind, a reasonable penalty for an egregious food crime. Some cooks put a little water in the bottom of the pan when roasting at low temps. I have found that for prime rib, a convection oven always provides a better result. And Yorkshire pudding is a MUST with prime rib--as all that good grease should NOT go to waste. And I see no benefit (and some diminuition of quality) to having your butcher remove then reattach the fat, bones and deckel. When the roast is done and has rested, you can zip off the bones in one piece with one sweep of a knife. Easy. Attention should be paid as well to proper slicing of the finished rib. Too many cooks prepare beautiful prime ribs, only to hack clumsily at them with dull, meat-axe-like knives. The slice of beef--as presented --should maintain the structural integrity of the roast, meaning a complete slab of unvaryingly consistent width, inner part surrounded by an uninterrupted circumference of seared surface, NOT whittled, diagonal slices like from a bone-in Christmas ham. Alternately, a prime rib "croute de sel" can be a cool thing. Just mix beaten egg whites with large grained sea salt, competely pack the roast with the mixture and slow roast until rare. Rest, then crack into the beef. Resist the urge to serve prime rib hot. A popular food crime in crap steakhouses is to reheat slices of prime rib by putting a romaine leaf over a pre-cut slice and flashing it under the salamandre--which pretty much ruins the whole thing.

Terminate. With extreme prejudice.

It should be.

Please describe your server for the metal-in-food incident and if it rings a bell, I will see to it she becomes quickly unemployed.

Re: The Mystery of The Disappearing Ramsay Maybe I'll tell that story at my event. It's a classic. But the best Ramsay anecdotes come from Australia where his free and frank expression of displeasure to a certain member of the foodie press has made him legend. I've been kicking around ideas for what the hell I'm going to do at the event, but I'm leaning strongly towards " The Celebrity Chef Phenom: Boon To Mankind OR Sign Of The Apocalypse?" (with examples). To be followed by lively question and answer debate. To be followed by me hopefully having a really good time... Sunday at 1 I'll be showing the flag over at the Les Halles booth--which better leave me some time for boat-drinks and beach.

Why not be a judge on Iron Chef? So many good reasons. But principally, I'm not ready for the "Jamie Farr on the Gong Show" period of my career just yet. And let's be honest: the best thing about Iron Chef was the dubbing.

When a restaurant review closes with the reviewer suggesting that next time she'll "order a glass of sake, stay for the gougeres (amuses), then feign illness and steal across Columbus Circle to Jean Georges for a meal that never disappoints" ? That's called a bad review.

Guess who turned down a gig as a judge?