American Fez

The Devil Finds Inspiration For Idle Cooks

Compared to the infinite flavor varieties offered at today's artisanal bakeries, the eldritch ingredients flung into the cauldron stirred by the three witches from Macbeth seem rather dull and a little bit 'last week.'

After all, who hasn't munched wearily on their umpteenth eye of newt cupcake? Who hasn't rolled their eyes at yet another toe of frog donut? Who hasn't been let yearning for something different for once after being confronted by rows of stale wool of bat croissant? I know I have.

For crying out loud, I'd even be happy with plain old plain flavor: a stand-up donut with nothing in or on it that only tastes of dough. God knows that would be a pleasant change.

This manic culinary urge to transform the simple into the overwrought is also true of salads. I can't remember the last time I was served a traditional Caesar, Waldorf, or Caprese salad.

Shards of dry chicken instead of silvery anchovies scattered across your Caesar salad. Russian dressing splattered all over your Waldorf salad. A wad of iceberg lettuce rather than a lovely basil leaf disfiguring your Caprese salad.

And to add insult to injury, they'll even ask if you require grated cheese dumped over what is already a crime against what you thought you had ordered.

Double, double toil and trouble, indeed. I couldn't put it better myself. These terrible modern kitchen "inspirations" are enough to make you want to drown your sorrows in a glass of refreshing baboon's blood (please see our mixologist's mouthwatering list of creative craft cocktails)

Baedekeresque

I spent all of last week vacationing in Rhode Island, a state previously visited as a mere day tripper; a paying customer at the Newport mansions of the mega-rich from another Age; a fast ferry passenger to minuscule Block Island, cluttering up the harbor bars, cafes, and shops for an afternoon before returning to the mainland with only a lighthouse fridge magnet to show for his adventure. I have visited Providence, too, briefly, but the experience was not providential for me or the city.

This time I traveled to Narragansett, named after the tribe who lived there before the area was settled by colonial curmudgeon Roger Williams and his friends. For a coastal town, Narragansett has a distinctly suburban vibe, epitomized by the fee of ten dollars per person charged to walk on the town beach, meaning frugal vacationers drive to nearby Matunuck for their sunbathing. The facilities are excellent, as are the sand and the surf and the adjacent oyster bar. Wickford village is well worth visiting and the 'Rise' American pale ale offered by Whalers Brewing Company of Wakefield is perhaps a little too drinkable.

So that is my snapshot of Narragansett, make of it what you will, and an excuse for this blog's recent lack of updates. Regular readers, if there are any, should appreciate the factual tone of this particular post for next week will surely mark a return to nonsense and downright lies. So until then, probably Wednesday or Thursday, I bid you the traditional Rhode Island farewell of a quick wave of the hand accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

Looking On The Bright Side

Friday 13th, despite its widespread reputation for calamity, is considered lucky in my family as so many of us were born at this particular conjunction in the calendar. Not me, as it happens. I am obviously a Monday's child. Nevertheless, I am happy to join bask in the radiant glow of niche serendipity earned by those of my kin celebrating Friday 13th birthdays. 

Sunday 31st, conversely, is a frustrating day in my personal diary. But perhaps this has more to do with the fact that bills are due and I have to go to work in the morning rather than with any cosmically scheduled misfortune. I tend to keep an eye on the Ides of March, too. Mostly because I identify with Julius Caesar. That's between me and my long-suffering psychiatrist, however, so I'm not going to go into the details here. It's not easy being descended from Venus whatever you may think.

Anyway, it was Friday 13th yesterday and true to form I discovered twenty dollars in the back pocket of jeans I was preparing to be laundered. The stars had aligned on cue to shower me with gifts as usual. Of course, doing laundry on Friday night may not seem especially lucky to you, and a few found bucks not much compensation for a tedious evening at home doing chores, but we all need to count what blessings we can these days. 

So lucky me. I'm going to pull on a clean pair of socks and a newly pressed shirt, then spend my twenty dollars on two large ice creams for me and my beautiful wife. And there will even be just enough change for a twin pack of extra strength Lactaid. Isn't it great how things always work out when you think positively?

Forthright of July

Never, the nutritionists advise, eat anything your grandparents wouldn't recognize as food.

Wise counsel, to which I'd add: never wear anything Steve McQueen wouldn't recognize as clothes; never settle down with a book that George Orwell wouldn't recognize as literature; never hang a picture on your wall that Picasso wouldn't recognize as art; never lend an ear to anything Hildegard of Bingen wouldn't recognize as music.

The last of these prescriptions might be considered a trifle severe, obviously. But cacophonous contemporary music is one of the most undesirable blights of the modern world, especially in the summer months when toe-tapping, head-nodding ingrates feel free to unleash their mind-numbing "beats" in public parks and beaches at maximum volume. Which is why I order a strict diet of liturgical monophony for all and sundry as soon as the weather warms up.

So, to sum up, this summer I suggest eating Caprese salads (Campari soda optional but recommended) with a lightweight Baracuta jacket slung around your shoulders, P. G Wodehouse novel bookmarked beside you (don't read at the table, please), Winslow Homer watercolor displayed prominently in your eye line, and a disc of monastic plainchant on the turntable (or, if you're feeling particularly summery, perhaps a little scholarly reproduction of festive Roman flute playing).

But above all, ignore any blog posts featuring a supercilious list of things to not do. It is summer, after all, and the livin' is supposed to be easy rather than loaded with loads of idiotic Draconian rules.

Just watch your frozen yogurt intake. Lots of sugar in those bad boys. I refer you back to the nutritionists quoted in my first sentence.