Manolo says, EVOO is people! And dogs!
Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure as a Canadian and sophisticated humanoid life form to announce that today is an historic day.
Today, my friends, is Talk … Like … William … Shatner … Day.
It’s also his 80th Birthday, so mazel tov, Bill!
In the spirit of Shatnerianism, we present this ad for William Shatner’s Frying Saucer, a product somewhat less commercially successful than the George Foreman grill, despite the great advantage of being entirely imaginary.
Since we’re on a Shatnerian, foodie roll (a Montreal smoked meat sandwich roll?) here is Henry Rollins’ two-part tribute to the World’s Greatest Canadian and, in particular, his amazing ability to inspire scallop fishermen to greater heights (depths?) of awesomenosity in the pursuit of a Shatner-worthy seafood platter.
“He’s not like us. He’s Canadian.”
Which reminds me of one of the great trivia stories of celebritydom. When young Bill told his stuffy Mount Royal parents about his plan to throw away his proper, preppy upbringing and become nothing more than a meat puppet, his father threw him out without a cent, in fine Dickensian tradition. So William Shatner spent a great portion of his early years subsisting on 25 cent servings of fruit salad at Kresge’s Department Store.
How did I miss this? Spies, food, alcohol, anarchy, conspiracy, and double-crossing: it’s got EVERYTHING I look for in a story.
In order to keep government-mortifying website Wikileaks running and pay the considerable legal fees of his (unsuccessful) fight against extradition, Draco Malfoy imitator and human ferret Julian Assange invited the world to dine with him on February 9th of this year.
For a fee.
No, seriously, how did I miss this? Assange is easily my favorite James Bond villain, and a more stimulating dinner companion could hardly be imagined (just keep all the lights on). According to the website, it was a one-time opportunity to gather with friends and Wikileaks supporters, donate to the cause, and in return be given a link to unlock a Vimeo video of Assange saluting you and presumably pretending to be interested in what your Uncle Harry has to say about kids these days and their crazy music, etc, etc.
Well guess what? Someone leaked the video. So here’s what we missed! [ed note: when the inevitable takedown notice comes, the very fabric of the space-irony continuum will be destroyed]
In the words of Julian Assange – “There are four things that cannot be concealed for long, the sun, the moon, the truth – and dessert!”
Who doesn’t love toast? Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I like better than a newly-cut piece of beautifully made, fresh bread; it’s just that this exquisite pillowy pleasure lasts, at most, one day, and then there you are with a dried-out husk of rapidly hardening gluten, suitable perhaps for insulation or waylaying passers-by in lonely alleyways without leaving bruises (can you imagine the police report? “and then, *sniff*, and then she beat me about the head and neck with a large ciabatta“) SO much handier than a telephone book, and who even has those anymore? Or you could make spitballs with which to annoy pedestrians outside your window, if it’s not too far gone.
Where was I? Oh yes, talking about old bread. There are several food-based things you can do with superannuated bread, namely Stuffing/Dressing, Bread Pudding, French Toast, and Toast Toast. Croutons don’t count, because croutons are the devil’s own hemorrhoids, and we shall speak no more of them.
Today we are discussing toast in its purest form. It is not warm bread. Carbonization is necessary, if only to justify the word “toast” as a colour favored by hotel designers everywhere. Just look at this adorable Toast Modernist piece. Speaking of imperial levels of chic, let’s check out this fascinating video by Chloe, everyone’s favorite fashionista foodie philosotrix.
We are agreed: toast is charming! Toast is AMAZING!
A sincere Happy 56th birthday to Paris Hilton, the Manolosphere’s favorite celebutard. We saw the pictures from your party (and we wondered, for a moment, if when someone told you to “blow” the candles, awkward hijinks ensued) and it looks like a great time was had by all.
I woke up this morning with a $2000 birthday cake in my living room.
It says “Paris”.
And its fucking delicious.
24 hours ago I got a call from my well-connected buddy Kevin. “Dude, I’m crashing Paris Hilton’s birthday tonight. Pretty sure I can get you in,” he says. “Pretty sure you can’t,” I say. “Pretty sure I will,” he says.
90 minutes later we’re strolling down a red carpet like we belong there…
This is as delightful a tale of dessert-based Schadenfreude as the interwebs possess! Yes, just like Kim Kardashian’s $1million birthday cake, this relatively low-rent stunner was just going to be used for decoration and then thrown out. Naturally, in an economic climate as dire as ours, this offended our young adventurer, and he took the only course of action which an ethical partycrasher could, liberating the tasty treat in the name of The People.
and then posting the whole thing to Facebook, god love him.
Even in my sub-functional state, I realize this is going to be a delicate mission. There are still at least 100 people in the building, 20% of whom are employed to be looking for idiots like me.
Parading a confection the size of a small firetruck through the main hall is going to turn a head or two…
I take my cue and make a bullet for cake city.
In one fluid motion, I sidestep a confused waiter, seize the prize, and about face to the door.
I pass the security chief again on the way out.
I nod purposefully… he nods in return.
40 seconds later I’m in the front seat of a Nissan Maxima with 70 lbs. of awesome in my lap.
As the sun rises, I crash hard. In the morning, I’ll awake to an interesting surprise in the den.
It’s red. It’s delicious. And I don’t know WTF I’m going to do with it.
My god, what did we ever do before we had the technological capability to MST3K red carpet events in realtime? Also, the woman has a point.
Oh my. Oh my goodness. My, my, my, my, my.
Hunky Italian chef Gino D’Acampo is a big man, and a total hambone. When he loses a bet, he doesn’t shrivel up, he antes up. Here he goes Jamie Oliver one better by becoming a truly Naked Chef, and never mind the risks to life, limb, and little buddy.
Long story short, Italian chef Gino D’Acampo made a promise to viewers of ITV’s This Morning that, should the show win a National Television Award, he would return to cook sans clothes. Well, they won, and he did.
That takes sfere, and, as you can see, Gino is a man who knows where to draw the line, who’s not as likely to run something up the flagpole and see who salutes as he is to carry his cowl where the sun don’t shine. Of the three of them on-camera (and the vast, multitudinous horde swarming around off-camera) only one person keeps his cool when the heat is on and the dial is turned up to 12. He barely cracks a smile even as his boneheaded cohosts pull boner after boner during this simple segment on preparing gammon and mushy peas.
Yes, Gino D’Acampo is the obvious weiner.
On the bright side, nobody can accuse Bourdain of being a passively detached parent.
“If you’re looking for elitism and hypocrisy and silliness, you need only look to food. Which is ready for a parody and backlash. I make a good living at it. But really it’s also just a part of a natural process, don’t you think? It was inevitable for this happen.”
Indeed it was, and high time. We’ve got to get in there before the industry entirely descends to unconscious self-parody. Although from time to time it appears we may be too late.
Am I the only one fatigued by all of this stuff? The only diner out there exhausted by the fastidiousness applied to $38 pappardelle and $3 frozen pop on a stick alike? The only one who feels bludgeoned by people swinging their expertise like so much boneless, air-dried Italian lomo? Incidentally, did you know Las Vegas chef Michael Mina poaches only fish in ocean water flown in from Fiji? Well, I know!
I know because I am part of the problem. Not a huge part; I only occasionally write about food. But I do openly wonder why more burger joints don’t make their own brioche buns and ketchup.
Incidentally, very few people who’ve worked at “burger joints” have such questions.