From Seymour Britchky’s “The Restaurants of New York: 1989” his thoughts on Donald Trump, in four parts.
There was a time in my life when I thought I knew a thing or two — about life, about being a reasonably functional member of society, about language, about being a food editor. That phase of my existence ended several weeks ago when the meatloaf salad showed up in my workplace cafeteria.
Several colleagues alerted me to its presence, sending pictures of the cut-up chunks of meatloaf with commentary such as “Really?!” “WTF” and “EEEWWWWW! Is this really salad?”
Seeing as I’m a journalist and all, I took it upon myself to investigate.
The dish was indeed on the salad bar, labeled “meatloaf salad” at 50 cents an ounce, and it tasted like cold chunks of decently prepared meatloaf. I posted a picture online and promptly questioned everything I have come to understand about myself and what I know about the world.
Stuff mixed with lettuce, I get that. Various materials held together with mayonnaise, I understand. Fruitstuffs tumbled about with marshmallows and cream, I don’t so much dig, but it has been codified as salad for me in the past, so I accept it as such.
But not this.
Read the rest of “Salad daze: From leafy greens to meatloaf chunks” at CNN Eatocracy
On the sad news of the passing of chef Roger Fessaguet, 82, much mention is being made of his career at the marvelous (and also dearly departed) La Caravelle. I did not dine there during his tenure (what with the rather young-being at the time), but certainly felt his legacy when I did so in 2002.
But La Caravelle wasn’t Fessaguet’s only venue. As noted in his New York Times obituary, “In 1967, he became an owner of Le Poulailler, a restaurant near the recently opened Lincoln Center. He and his partners sold it in 1981.”
Here’s some more about that.
I’ve always gotten a little flummoxed when the questions arise: “If you had a time machine, where would you go?” and “If you could eat dinner with anyone in history, who would it be?”
Two birds, one stone; clearly East Hampton, New York on Saturday, September 4, 1982, with Craig Claiborne and Pierre Franey. They get to select the rest of the guest list, because clearly, they are no slouches in that department.
I ran across this invitation at my favorite vintage bookstore over the weekend and purchased it with my hands shaking. Claiborne has long been my party-hosting muse. This is further affirmation.
And if I can ever get my paws on the actual menu, I may actually burst into flame — or at least host one helluva shindig.