Bob Dylan . . . Forever Young

Bob Dylan . . . Ring Them Bells

 

Me and Ms. Greene

Photo: Ethan Hill for The New York Times

Gael Greene you may know as a foodie. One of the first tier over the top originals of that species. She was restaurant critic for New York Magazine from 1968 to 2002 (Basta!). We share her aversion to foams, but mostly the lady strikes us as way too florid in her prose about what’s to chew. To put it her own way, a pen with butter for ink. Think, fussy finicky food fetishist. But, that’s us. Cooky Cat is finicky and fussy in his own inimitable way. So we won’t throw any more stones.

Anyway, we once had a nice lunch with her nibs. But, first some background.

I was an Ad Biggie in the Big Apple some time ago, around the Mad Men era. It was one of the perks of the job to get complimentary magazines delivered to your home. One day I arrived back to Casa Wronski to see in my latest New York Magazine a contest eligible to advertisers and industry types (not tipped into the regular newsstand editions). The challenge was to unscramble the letters to spell the correct names of ten of the magazine’s top ten restaurant advertisers. Then you would be judged based on how creatively you packaged your answers. The prize was lunch at the restaurant of the winner’s choosing; and, as it turned out, with Ms. Gael Greene herself and Mr. George A. Hirsch, the founding publisher of the magazine.

Always up for a creative challenge, one Saturday me and the little lady toodled off in our bouncy Citroen 2CV city car to collect match books from each of the restaurants whose scrambled names we previously had locked down. Then I constructed a colorful Paris style columnar kiosk complete with a pointed turret top and pasted the match book covers all around. This I placed inside a tall box with a top rigged so that when it was pulled off the four sides would drop away to reveal the matchbook decorated kiosk inside. Think voilà! And, Ta Da!

And, can you believe it, we won! Match that!

Our choice was Café Chauveron, then a top NYC restaurant. Here is the Insatiable Critic’s own review of that erstwhile great place, Cafe Chauveron as Love Object.

On the appointed day we met Ms. Green and Mr. Hirsch at the restaurant. I don’t recall what we actually ate, but two things I do remember.

If you have had the exposure you will know that Gael Greene was a shooting star celebrity critic in the New York City culinary world. One must pay proper due. She was the expert at our table; don’t make any mistake about it. While scanning the French language menu, I read out loud, “Champignons”. Gael, without a second’s pause quickly translated, “Mushrooms”. Well, I already happened to know that, but didn’t say so. It just struck me as her smart, perhaps sly way of, as they say, making me her bitch. Lovely. I’ve been a big fan ever since. Not. Maybe she was attempting to be helpful, and I am being not too kind. But, even so, one shouldn’t assume one’s guest is ignorant and (even worse) be too quick to enlighten. Word!

But the kicker came later at the dessert course. Ms. Greene ordered the chocolate mousse. To die for she said; and it was. A big dollop of dark airy creamy rich soft chocolate mousse served in a squarish shallow chocolate cup. After having a taste Gael called for the waiter. Per my approximate recollection, “This mousse, it seems different. Are you using the same chocolate?” When the waiter returned with the answer to that weighty question he smilingly reported that, indeed, the usual chocolate for the mousse was not available and this was made with a substitute.

OMG! Holy crap! That is one sophisticated palate. My first take was that it was a set up designed to shock and awe (I was a cynical adman, after all).  But, again, I performed my part like a gentleman and beamed my deeply impressed approval her way. But, come on, Gael.

What was the truth of it, we’ll probably never know. Nevertheless, dear Gael Greene, thanks for the memory.

Pêche Poussé

A friend went out to a fancy French restaurant looking for an amazing meal. Spare no expense.

“Please won’t you prepare your very best dishes for me, chef’s choice.”

Course following course. Every one, a triumph. Each, better than the other.

Finally, the dessert course . . .

The maître de arrives tableside with a cart on top of which is a pyramid of the most exquisite colorful ripe peaches precisely placed on a gold tray surrounded by pink roses. He is accompanied by a gorgeous young lady wearing a peachy pink outfit with a short skirt with lots of ruffles and petticoats.

The maître de selects the prime-most peach, inserts a fork into it and proceeds to peel the juicy fruit in one deft movement. Like a Frenchman who has been married many times.*

He then smugly bows and presents the peach to the diner with a grand flourish.

On cue the young lady lifts her skirt. It is clear to be seen that she is not wearing any panties. And, as smooth as a peach herself. The maître de gently places the juicy peach between her soft ingénue thighs, whereupon she proceeds to wriggle and writhe, squirming and gyrating around the peach up between her legs. 

After quite a long time — and an ecstatically explosive, operatic climax crescendo [available on request for an extra charge] — she stops, and the maître de lifts up the peach with a grand flourish. He exclaims, “Voilà, monsieur, Pêche Poussé!”

Shocked, the man blurts out, “No way am I going to eat THAT peach!” WTF!

The maître de diplomatically rejoins, “Ah, monsieur, the peach . . . the PEACH you do NOT eat.”

* A friend of mine married a French girl. He told the story of meeting her parents, and being presented with the task of peeling a pear without breaking the peel. It should come off in one continuous piece. Presumably, a test to see how much care and attention he would devote to their darling little girl.

PS The fellow developed a taste for that dessert and now orders it regularly himself ...

PPS For an extra charge the lass will stand on a large gold tray onto which the flowing peach juices are collected and served as a kind of a chaser. 

[Wraunchy Wronski strikes again.]

Movie Star

You have come to our attention as possibly being a person of some justifiable fame and notoriety.

If you are, then this song is for you. . .

Be sure to have your speakers on to hear this musical offering.

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TRUTH

He said this:

“All your troubles arise due to one cause. You are wrong about yourself. You take for true what is nothing but a story. A beautiful, wonderful, amazing story; but, a story nonetheless. It’s a fiction, no more real than the play of light on a movie screen. This is the ground from which arise those mischievous idols of doership and agency that you take for granted and serve without reflection or examination. 

“You are so in thrall with all this self-created drama you haven’t realized there is a choice.

“Either, to serve the ego-mind, associating yourself with those of like kind and at the effect of the fictions of mine and yours, praise and blame, gain and loss, rewards and punishments.

“Or, Truth.”

They were astonished at the simplicity and directness of it. They challenged his assertion, “Truth? Just what is that?”

He replied, “I don’t know to say. Certainly not my truth, nor yours, nor anyone else’s for that matter. Simply Truth itself.”

Again, they asked, “How then will we know it is the Truth?”

“You will know it because of the one incontrovertible fact. Truth is true. It is directly self-evident.”

Finally, they asked the essential question, “How do we realize this for ourselves?” (Those who were willing to consider his point, anyway.)

“It is the simplest thing. You are That. Nothing to be done, really. Relatively speaking, just stop fueling the fire of the ego. Take away your attention from it.”

Nothing more was said. Or, need be said.

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Some Sherso! So Shi(r)tzy

This is dedicated to that great “comicatura”—but, only when she’s in the mood—soprano Sarah Levine Simon (Click here for her website. Be sure to look at the inspired YouTube videos under Recipes ).

INSCRIPTION: If every oyster in the sea only heard the serenity of the deep there would be no pearls for my lady. It takes a storm to stir things up to get that little grain of sand going.

First, listen to this.

Then read my wonderfully (riotously?) hilarious commentary.

Followed by a much needed musical chaser.

In these postmodern times there are many ways to appreciate that particular scherzo. If you cheer with the audience then you are definitely postmodern ("whatever") due to possibly not being born before the Reagan administration. If you think this schatzie’s sherso is really rather shi(r)tzo, then you are definitely not of the postmodern “whatever” sensibility. If you’ve been reading too much Deridda on the can [while you are on the commode have yourself a good Foucault as well] you might be someone who assumes our beauty queen is simply bringing some pre-postmodern irony to her interpretation. Or, a lame homage to Victor Borge. Really? No? Whatever.

Regardless where you come out in the taste wars, you have to admit—while he may not be the looker—Vladamir is prettier.

Now, enjoy. Really!

Fireplace 

Ad Biggie

xxx

Ad Biggie

Like a lot of people I am a fan of Mad Men. In fact, I was an Ad Biggie once upon a time. I starting my career in the Ad Biz in New York City in 1968 as an account executive at the venerable—celebrating 100 years at that time—J. Walter Thompson Advertising Agency. 

In my time the three martini lunch was winding down. Wine spritzer, please. My drink of choice, Campari and soda, big squeeze of lemon. 

As for the sex, well some things don’t change. (And never will.) I’ve had own my memorable taxi rides. Nothing to report, just some delicious temptations.