It would seem that Zero Mostel was a sucker for foot jelly — a veritable fiddler on the hoof. And it must be said that there’s a tremendous visceral appeal in having a trotter all a-bubble on the stovetop for the better part of a day. For goodness sakes, many a savory pie or festive aspic demands it, and heaven forfend that boeuf go sans gelée.

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“First let me introduce myself. I’m Craig Claiborne, and this is Julia Child.” Photo: Scanned from A Feast Made for Laughter

“And to tell the truth, I was bored with restaurant criticism. At times I didn’t give a damn if all the restaurants in Manhattan were shoved into the East River and perished. Had they all served nightingale tongues on toast and heavenly manna and mead, there is just so much that the tongue can savor, so much that the human body (and spirit) can accept, and then it resists. Toward the end of my days as restaurant critic, I found myself increasingly indulging in drink, the better to endure another evening of dining out. I had become a desperate man with a frustrating job to perform.” — from ‘A Feast Made for Laughter’ by Craig Claiborne, New York Times Dining editor and restaurant critic, 1982

While there have thus far been no reports of departing New York Times restaurant critic and newly-minted memoirist Frank Bruni tipsily pressing ham against the windows of the Second Avenue Deli, rolling members of the Cipriani family for spare change and Bellini drippings, or skulking through the catacombs at Ninja New York, randomly alarming the goofily hooded servers, it’s not as if he’s going silently into that last bite.

They rarely do.

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