Category: Gnews

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• First came Bush's Freedom Fries; now danishes in Iran have been renamed "Roses of the Prophet Muhammad" in protest.  Some proposed new changes for the White House larder: Best Friends Forever Breakfast Tea, Kraft Heaven is for Christians Cheese Slices.
• Do you miss Julia Child?  I do.  This week's Eat, Memory features an excerpt from an upcoming autobio co-written by Julia's nephew Alex Prud'homme.  Big personality, no preciousness.

It's a Wednesday blowout!  Bruni debuts his blog (ooooh, I'm scared) and a review of Telepan that actually includes the  following sentences:

Entranced by Eggs. 
Bewitched by Blini.
Clobbered by Color.

If you need a little more help purging your breakfast, go ahead and read the asslicker comments on the blog.  Can Dick Cheney please take that guy on a hunting trip already?

According to this avuncular oncologist, aspartame is a carcinogen.  That's right, Tri-Delts, there's no such thing as Santa Claus.  This does not mean you should go running blindly into the arms of Splenda.  Sweet n' Low turned out to be an "anticipated carcinogen," I'm sure Splenda's time is nigh.  Remember, thorough research on possible carcinogenic substances takes a really long time; big money lobbying by Monsanto-peer behemoths for FDA approval does not.  Which is a bummer because I had just learned to drink Diet Coke in the last few months.  But I'm switching back to seltzer -- I have enough vices, I don't need to be wasting my lifespan on artificial sweeteners.

Those dumb Typepad/Kanoodle mortgage and tax filing ads didn't earn me bupkis in the last week, so off they go.  Hooray!  The Tip Jar, however, remains open and ready for business.  EDOW relies on the support of readers like you.  Become a member today at the $2 level and get the same gift the people who give nothing get -- Ganda Gone Wild, Uncut, Uncensored and Unrated!

• We're being POUNDED (heh heh) by a blizzard.  Being a suburban alarmist at heart, I got enough groceries up in my bunker to last through February.  Come Armageddon come!

• Vanessa Jackson goes to prison for almost successfully starving her four adopted children to death.  LOOK AT HOW PLUMP THE FACE OF EVIL IS.  Imagine the things she was stuffing her face with while she made her stunted adopted children "eat pancake batter, dried-up grits and oatmeal, uncooked Cream of Wheat, and raw potatoes instead of cooked food."  How can a person go to jail for a mandatory 10 year sentence for pulling a gun without firing it, but this woman gets only gets seven years for blatant abuse?  I hope she becomes the prison bitch for some 400 lb. gorilla who takes her share of graham crackers and bologna for the next seven years. 
• It's a scandal that has New York Mag cover story written all over it. Mario Batali and Lidia Bastianich may be forced to close Del Posto if they don't make repairs that would amount to more than $500,000 -- which is roughly the cost of two lobster claws and one veal cheek at the pasta palazzo.

• Low-fat diets do not reduce heart disease and cholesterol.  You now have no excuse for that tub of margarine in your fridge -- Crisco, however, is still acceptable.

• In slightly older news, Grilled Cheese kicks the bucket, citing a rent hike.  Sadly, LES baby bankers and trustafarians may never solve the mystery of how to melt a slice of cheese between two slices of bread.  Most likely, a Cup O'Noodles restaurant or an Instant Oatmeal cafe will open up shop in its place, ensuring that the malnourished masses of Ludlow Street get their daily servings of simple carbs and sat-fat.
• Valentine's Day looms like a cloud of noxious intestinal gas.  If you haven't already procured a table for you and your honey, Open Table says there are still reservations open at Alain Ducasse at Essex House, Gramercy Tavern, Gari and the oh-so-romantic Lucky Cheng's.  I will be home alone, swallowing that little bit of barf in my mouth.

• Astor Wines & Spirits will become the cornerstone of the new Astor Center, set to open in early March.  Classy new amenities include a temp-controlled Cool Room housing 500 fragile, rare wines, (maybe) the largest selection of artisanal Sakes, and an expanded tasting area, with any luck increasing the likelihood that some wacko wino will re-enact the Paul Giamatti spit bucket-guzzling scene from Sideways.
• Andrea Strong discusses the growing popularity of finger food.  What is the matter with these people, do they not ride the same subway that I do? 

You may have noticed the ads over there on the left.  Yeah, I hate ads too.  But I hate paying Typepad every month even more.  If you like what I do, please donate to the tip jar or click on an ad every once in a while, so I can give you my two cents a little more often.  Actually, if people give to the tip jar, I'll be more than happy to take the ads off.  (Just so you know, Typepad set the tip jar minimum at $2, not I.  I would have happily whored myself out to you for your spare quarter.)  And if you're a member of my family, it is your duty to click on those ads every day as long as you're spying on me through my blog.

I'm sorry I've been MIA.  I've got a gajillion things going on, which I will tell you more about as they solidify.

By the way, why the hell is everyone googling Rickshaw Dumpling Bar? 

• It's Year of the Dog, which means at least one motherfucker doing multi-culti outreach will inevitably wish me a cheery "Gung Hay Fat Choy!" this week.  Thai New Year is in April, people.  I may be half-Chinese, but this ain't my new year and it ain't your new year, so go blow that sunshine up someone else's ass.  And most Chinese people here speak Cantonese, so if you gotta butcher a phrase, it's "Sun nin fai lok!" UPDATE: Gung Hay Fat Choy is Cantonese after all, but it doesn't mean "Happy new year," it means "Be prosperous."  You see how not Chinese I am?
• Frank Bruni chronicles his tour as a waiter in what sounds like a wicked awesome place to watch the Bowl over a cold brewski, bra.  Pobresito, now all the perfumes in Arabia could not sweeten that apricot lager mustard-stained hand.

• Dr. Michael Osterholm tells Oprah that chicken in this country is perfectly fine to eat, but you should enjoy your poultry today because NEXT WEEK WE ARE ALL DYING OF BIRD FLU.  If you didn't get wrangle a prescription from your doctor before today's show, you're gonna have to throw down with meth-head soccer moms at Duane Reade to get your Tamiflu on.
• Iron Chef Morimoto-san is opening a ginormous eponymous $10 million outpost in the Meatpacking District, filling a gaping void in New York's dining scene for designer, behemoth, prohibitively expensive Japanese restaurants.
• Actually, French women DO get fat. Mireille says only 1% of her book was not true; the publisher made her leave a few words out of the original title of the book, Filthy Rich French Women Don't Get Fat.  Goooooooooooooo class action suit!

The news according to Ganda:

• City Bakery has a "secret" shop in the East Village -- it is not near an N or D train stop, so I don't care.
• Teany has reopened.  I will not help line the money-padded pockets of overcharging LES vegans, so I don't care.
• Ridic comments over on Gothamist re: Trader Joe's.  You wanna hate on Trader Joe's and burn your bourgie money at Citarella?  Fine, more dried fruit and frozen Indian food for me and my Cali hippie money, sucka.
• Oh ma ga did you know?  There's this fifth taste "emerging" from the brine?  Called umami?  The Japanese discovered it?  It's in fish sauce?  And MSG?  It's a good thing Jeffrey Steingarten didn't already write about umami extensively, like, ten years ago. Except...
• Del Posto Shmel Posto.  I'll believe it when I eat it.

I went to Spice Market the other night for the unveiling of the newest Tabasco product, an Asian-inspired Sweet & Spicy Hot Sauce.  It was appetizers and open bar from 6-8, and I somehow managed to chug three glasses of cava in a little over an hour.  I was pretty tipsy and loquacious when Shannon showed up at 7:15, prompting him to ask, "Man, what'd you guys do, get here at 5:59?"

It was my first time at Spice Market, which is quite a pleasant space despite the hordes of Upper East Siders -- lots of stained wood, lots of bare waitress skin.  After the Amanda Hesser circle jerk review, I was a little dubious.  But I have to say that the finger foods they were passing around were pretty damned delish.  Crisp, wonton skinned samosas with spicy chicken filling; plump shrimp peeking out from between two crunchy coconut batter discs; dainty index finger sized shiitake spring rolls; and coconut milk-marinated satay skewers. We dipped everything in the Sweet & Spicy, which is like a chic, deseeded version of that Thai sweet chili sauce they pour over fried fish.  I bet it's excellent doused on fried chicken wings.

Let me be the first to suggest that they use the Cibo Matto song "White Pepper Ice Cream" in the commercial:

Which is the first word?
Sweet or spicy?
ça m’est égal
ça m’est égal
It’s all the same to me

No need to get all self-righteous indie rocker on me, people -- somebody's going to make money from the commercials, might as well be one of my well-deserving friends.  Then maybe somebody can take me to Spice Market proper.