What are you wearing?

Alright, I admit it, I went to Sex and the City Friday night at 6:15, snuck out of work early and spent a little time watching groups of women--old, young, pretending--sashay into the Westshore movie theater in tippy heels and incredible outfits. Definitely the most dressed up I've seen an assembly of women in the Tampa Bay area. Podiatry is going to be booming, I tell you.

It got me thinking, though, about dress code. More specifically: why in Florida anything seems to go in restaurants. Think about it, there's nowhere we have to dress up. Women can wear jeans just about anywhere, men wear the Florida uniform (long shorts, muted Hawaiian-print, short-sleeved button shirt, untucked).

Even in fancy restaurants, we look like schmucks. New York, Paris, L.A.--people still seem to dress for dinner if it's somewhere good. Is it temperature, or humidity, or stupidity that keeps up comfy in flip-flops in a white-tablecloth joint? I'm not beyond reproach. I often dine with two older gentlemen who still believe in navy blue blazers, sometimes even a tie. With them I sometimes wish I'd tried just a little harder (although I'm never going to be one of those handbag-matching-the-shoes gals).

I wonder if restaurateurs are ever demoralized by their clientele's sartorial shortcuts, if they're not willing to pull out all the stops if we're not willing to put on the dog.

Why I hate Hell’s Kitchen

“The only thing I’m going to lose to a woman is an ironing contest.”

“Just because I look pretty doesn’t mean I can’t cook.”

Who are these people?

I’ve never watched this show, but people have told me I oughtta. Also, I read this great Salon article about Gordon Ramsey. And then I watched this totally gorgeous one-minute YouTube video by him.

The thing is, despite his limited vocabulary (the f-word can be every single part of speech, including preposition, article and compound adjective-adverbial phrase) and dire need of forehead Botox, I like Gordon Ramsey. He was a spicy superstar in a country of limited culinarians of that ilk (I guess Marco Pierre White was cooking and cussing a blue streak on his own for a while).

Still, this show is a huge fake-fest, but worse. As with so many reality shows, it divides contenders by gender. Why not by eye color, handedness or length of second toe? It seems retro at best and deeply sinister at worst that all these shows have to be a battle of the sexes. Even yuckier, Ramsey categorizes it as “the men’s versus the girls’ team.” All these chicks look over 21 to me. Can we at least call them skirts or dames or something?

But I digress. First, there’s Bobby, a purported four-star general. There have been only 207 four-stars in the Army’s history. Yet this guy is an ineffectual doofus. Then there’s the guy who shoe-horned a Cornish game hen into a pumpkin. Whaa? And the home cook with the Moe haircut who makes chicken cacciatore and then nervously holds raw sea scallops on his open palm the rest of the show. And the willowy little mohawk guy who channel’s Runway’s Christian Siriano—like he’s got the chops to lead a kitchen? And the baldy dope-smoking Jason.

The “girls” aren’t much better, but anyway, my bigger beef: This isn’t how kitchens work. It’s not the biggest ego or the loudest voice wins a free-for-all. Everyone has a station and an assigned task. There’s a kitchen leader/chef de cuisine/head line cook who may or may not act as an expeditor, calling orders. It's not that if you get all Tyra Banks and nostril-flarey your kitchen chums start taking orders.

Then, of course, there's the final indignity. One of these d-wads (Agatha and JM, you know what I'm saying) will win this deal and instantly be plunked into a $250,000/year exec. chef job. Just another case of Reality not mirroring reality. 

I think I'm a foodite

TBT's Pete Couture turned me on to a great little conversation on Grub Street, posted by Jennifer Lynn Pelka:

"The big discussion at last night’s “Brooklyn Eats” talk in Dumbo was the semantic difference between “foodie” and “foodist.” Phoebe Damrosch, author of Service Included pointed out that, in New York, “foodie” has become a derogatory term used to describe those who sit at home watching Semi-Homemade on the Food Network. Another type of foodie, an audience member added, is one who seeks out new restaurants, wines, and foods only to check them off a laundry list of places to see and be seen. Edible Brooklyn editor Gabrielle Langholtz suggested that bona fide food fans — those who read food books, travel to food destinations, and taste obsessively — could refer to themselves as “foodists,” as intense Star Trek fans go not by “trekkies” but “trekkers”."

Hmm, not sure how I feel about it. "Gourmet" is an utterly bankrupt word, and when I see it on a menu I get the heebies (actually, same with the word "fresh"--as opposed to what?). "Gourmand" and "connoisseur" are too grandiose. I suppose "foodie" has always conveyed to me someone with an avid, perhaps even unnatural preoccupation with food. Maybe they cook, maybe they don't, but they eat with enthusiasm and attention.

But is "foodist" really accurate? It's "one that performs a specialized action ... a specialist in a specified art, science, or skill." So, that specialized skill would be, um, eating? Then how about "foodian"? That's  "one relating to or belonging to." That seems less pretentious, but it's a little vague.

Alright, I think I have it. A "foodite," the suffix "ite" meaning "a member of a tribe, a member of a faction and a denizen of a place."

Photo from TheNibble.com.

Restaurant websites--the good, the bad and the just plain annoying

For the past four months I’ve spent my weekends revising the copy for a second edition of a book I wrote two years ago. To that end, I’ve spent a lot of time surfing websites, often restaurant websites.

It’s gotten me thinking about what consumers look for in a restaurant site. Here are my priorities:

• The address and phone should be obvious. Duh, but you’d be surprised by how many sites forget this. A link to Google maps or MapQuest is a nice feature.
• Ditch the mood music. Many people surf and make reservations at work. A plucky harmonica version of “Cheeseburger in Paradise” is highly embarrassing if your cubicle mates catch wind of it. Restaurant B.T. has music I can live with, but then there are ones like this or like this one (and what's with the glass of water?).
• Online reservation options are nice, whether it’s overseen by the restaurant itself or by OpenTable (a great thing, reminds my friend Jim Webster, because you accrue points on OpenTable that can be used toward restaurant meals).
• A CURRENT menu. Restaurateurs, it's a big pain in the patoot, but every time you change out your menu (or amend the prices), scan it, pdf it and slap it on your site. People are looking at your site specifically to peruse the menu (and assess the price point). It should be accurate.
• Picture(s) that give an accurate sense of the ambiance. Is it somewhere I can envision myself? It's that much easier if there's a photo that shows an expanse of dining room.
• Tell me a story. Who are the principals? How did the restaurant come to pass? What are you trying to do? (It doesn't need to be a high fallutin' culinary philosophy, just a general description of the kitchen's passions and orientation.)

A long-held restaurant beef

I reviewed a restaurant for this week. You will see on Thursday, it's a positive review. Except I did not mention this: Generous portions at lunch and dinner sometimes prompt you to ask for a to-go box. Instead of taking the residual pasta into the kitchen, they bring a tiny, clear-plastic clamshell-style box to the table.

Go ahead, they say, we double-dog-dare you to not to up-end 3/4 cup of alfredo sauce into your lap.

The room gets hushed. A little bobble on the mount, but it's looking good. Top of the clamshell flapping, fork gingerly teasing the pile--yes, steady, a little more. That's it, she's stuck the landing!! The Russian judges take points off for a puddle of sauce on the tablecloth, but she's beaming as the whole restaurant throws her single roses and small stuffed animals.

(Come to think of it, if biathalon can be an Olympic sport, why couldn't this?)

Seriously, take the food back in the kitchen, plop it into the go-box over the trash can where the stakes are lower. Then bring it to me. Better yet, keep it in the kitchen (marked with my table number or a description of me) and bring it to me when you bring the bill.

Cum on feel the noise

I was listening to NPR the other day and Danny Elfman was chatting with somebody about musical scores and soundtracks for movies. He was dissing people who insist that scores should be “invisible,” meaning an audience member should only really subliminally be aware of the music, that songs should come and go under your conscious radar, adding ambiance, mood and meaning without you even noticing.

To that he says “feh.” Music front and center, he says.

Which got me thinking about music in restaurants. A couple times recently music has been so intrusive and so off-putting that it affected my ability to eat a meal. I went to Café Bohemia in St. Petersburg one day for lunch, eventually abandoning my sandwich because the system was blaring something that sounded like tires squealing over irritable cats. A few weeks before that, I was on a review meal at Cheap in Tampa and the gloomy trance music caused my daughter to ask, “can we go now?” incessantly until threatened with bodily harm. Obviously, music doesn’t have to suit everyone or appeal to the lowest common denominator. Then we’d all be listening to early Beatles songs or a Musak version of "The Girl from Ipanema" all the time (as an aside, here's the world's most killer article about Musak). But when it’s really aggressive or loud or lyrically offensive, it strikes me that customers are entitled to complain.

When I'm reviewing I don't do that kind of thing (send stuff back, whine about the music or the temperature or a dirty fork). I try to stay on the down low. But on my own time, I'm going to start getting oral about the aural assaults.

Why food blogs suck eggs...

There was a piece in the Wall Street Journal last week by Katy McLaughlin that struck a nerve with me. Here's how it starts:

Dine, a contemporary American restaurant in Chicago, has been open for less than two years. But on one popular Web site, it is already rated half a star shy of Charlie Trotter's.

How did Dine garner such favorable reviews? One thing that probably didn't hurt: It fed many of the reviewers free. Last August, Dine spent about $1,500 on an event for members of Yelp, a Web site where consumers post reviews and rate restaurants. The nearly 100 members were treated to an open bar, duck roulade appetizers and red velvet cupcakes for dessert. As a bonus, they all received certificates for discounts on subsequent meals. The result: a torrent of favorable reviews on Yelp. Most reviewers mentioned that they attended a Yelp event, though few highlighted that the food and drink was free.

"I think if I was picking up the tab I wouldn't enjoy it as much," says Leigh Kelsey, a 28-year-old Chicago file clerk at a law firm who attended the event and posted positive comments on Yelp. A spokeswoman for Dine says attendees were not required to write reviews of any nature, positive or negative.

As online food sites become increasingly influential in the restaurant business, chefs and owners are plying bloggers with free meals to get good write-ups. Some are also posting favorable reviews about themselves on popular Web sites or becoming Internet scribes.

So, basically, the long story examines why restaurant critics at newspapers or magazines--those critics who dine anonymously; who do not take anything for free; who do not cultivate close relationships with restaurateurs, waiters or bartenders--are fundamentally better. Distance gives a critic perspective, and not feeling indebted or entangled with a restaurant allows a newspaper or magazine critic to evaluate more objectively.

Amen, sister.

Slightly crabby rant from my friend...

She's a good egg (shift gears, I'm not talking cage-free stuff now), so even you ferocious parents of young pups, see if there's a kernel of truth here before you bristle.

"Saw that you did a recent piece on noisy restaurants.  On a somewhat related note, I have an ax to grind about Starbucks.  Last week there were rumblings that they were looking at developing more products to market to kids.  Yeah, we don't have kids, but we live in a really family-oriented neighborhood. As a result, our local Starbucks has the ambiance of a Chuck E. Cheese's.  It's sad to see people with their laptops trying to have a meeting with a client, like they used to be able to do, while the little ones do laps.  I'm not knocking the kids.  Some are great.  Others, their parents don't expect much self control from them, so the worst of the lot sets the tone.  Here in our area, people can even bring their children into bars, so you can't go there for a bit of adult conversation their.  What's a grown up to do???  Am I really supposed to spend $4.00 for a coffee and not be able to enjoy it in peace?  End of rant."

I know what she means. Here's a question for you:

My editor is interested in me doing a story about people who bring electronic pacifiers (gameboys, DVD players, iPods) to restaurants for their kids. Is this a reasonable way to assure kids' good behavior? Are we missing the boat by keeping them constantly entertained to assure good behavior, or is this a kindness that proactively insures our fellow diners' happiness?

You go, Smedley!

I got this yesterday from A. Smedley. To Smedley, I say, "Get your own stinkin' blog, but I've got to agree with you on this one":

Hey, Mouth –

What’s your feeling about decorative squiggles of assorted squeeze-bottle “goo” liquids as a garnishment on food … soup to nuts? This seems like a very dated culinary embellishment … whose day may have come and gone by 2007, at least by the standards of most dining establishments in the more cosmopolitan, “hip” cities across the nation. However, word hasn’t been telegraphed yet to the kitchens of Tampa Bay!

Editorial note: Smedley means these:

One can imagine giant tanker trucks making daily deliveries to sunken storage “sauce-vats” in restaurant parking lots across the Tampa Bay, filled with something identified, as example, as “balsamico,” but in reality is some mock mahogany colored syrupy GOO concoction over which some shameless manufacturer paused to whisper "balsamic vinegar." Assuredly, when extruded artfully out of a plastic squeeze bottle and squiggled into lovely herringbone patterns with the end of a toothpick as the budding chef learned in Garde Manger 101, one can camouflage a multitude of sins or jazz up an otherwise ho-hum presentation … but does the decorative element add ANYTHING of value to the flavor of the dish it’s been oozed onto so heavy-handedly? And I challenge the food purveyor to verify that the contents of said squeeze bottle is solely unadulterated balsamic vinegar, or whatever colored flavor it’s purported to be!

I cite an experience this evening of dining in a well-reputed Tampa Italian trattoria. The tiramisu I ordered for dessert could have stood with its head held high as a perfectly acceptable paragon of coffee-infused, sponge-cake/lady finger based mascarpone delicacy. But when delivered to my table, it almost needed transport on a flat-bed truck, arriving with an excessive, yeah almost overwhelming OVERKILL encirclement of whipped cream  (probably real and not Redi-Whip from an aerosol can … but definitely uncalled for by any classic standards of tiramisu!), squeeze-bottle squiggles of BROWN AND RED - chocolate sauce and that ubiquitous red sweet stuff that one is hard-pressed to confirm as raspberry, cherry or strawberry. Whichever, it imparts virtually zero flavor, but has sufficient body to it to be extruded into those predictable, lasting decorative waves that someone in the kitchen has decreed makes the whole dish eye-catching. Frankly, it was a visual abomination that I wanted to ask be removed to the kitchen and a good scrape job performed to remove all the excessive goop! Better would have been a dainty helping of perfectly delectable tiramisu … hold the whip, hold the brown and red squiggles, and simply dust ever so lightly with a delicate grating of fine chocolate.

Ed. note: example of excessive whipped cream.

Tampa, just say “oh, so passé” to the squeeze bottle squiggles. Little to be gained flavor-wise and as for visual presentation, only makes the diner wonder what the kitchen is trying to distract us from on the plate!!!!

Crabby Andy Rooney rant No. 1

“Formal dining is dead,” declares Dean Fearing, the chef who spent two decades at the Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas. “I think people want to be wowed, but I don’t think being wowed is formal dining any more,” he adds.

So began a recent Zagat.com article.

I don't know if it's true, but I do know that the concept of tiered prix-fixe menus is increasingly lost. It used to be you'd go to a highfalutin bastion of gastronomy and there would be several prix-fixe menus offered at different prices. It meant that the meals reflected different levels of complexity. Essentially, that the different price levels convey a different opulence of ingredients—foie gras for the workhorse menu, hummingbird tongues or thymus gland of woodland caribou for the pull-out-the-stops menu.

Recently, though, it often just means "lots of food," "a huge amount of food" and "so much food it's scary." Many of the same dishes appear on all three menus, there are just more of them as the price steepens. What's wid dat?