Its a good thing they keep, I guess.

I thought I’d heard it all, then I went looking around for a new Hipster Grifter post on AnimalNY, and found this instead. Eating competitions are an important barometer of worth, don’t get me wrong, but is it really how we should be spending our time on the trading floor, fellas?

We considered giving it a shot this weekend, having worked up quite the hunger moving Chip et. al. into their new place, but decided against the risk and went for another chain instead. Still curious, I turned to Slice for the lowdown. This I like:

It’s almost like the end crust, or cornicione, has now become a sort of complimentary built-in order of lightly seasoned breadsticks. If you were previously inclined to leave the end crusts as “pizza bones,” maybe you should now order an extra cup of marinara sauce (50¢) and dunk ‘em.

Love a good crust bonus, but the rest of it seems underwhelming. They say its “better” but lots of things were “better” than what Domino’s used to pass off as food. And look at those pics. Just doesn’t look like the pie for my hole. And they still sell those pasta bread bowl things, which you can tell just from the pictures are wildly disgusting.

EEEW.

Remember your fourth grade teacher? Mine was called — spelled phonetically to protect the guilty (me) and because I don’t know how to spell — Ms. Hipsch. Rhymes with bitch, which gets good mileage if you’re in fourth grade and your instructor commutes upward from the seventh level of hell.

Alex Guarnaschelli is sort of like the fourth grade teacher of food. Its all fun and games one minute, and the next you’re catching hell on the chopping block for tossing too much bacon grease over your bacon-garnished ice cream and endive. It wears about the same, too; at first, you’re almost attracted to it (everyone’s a masochist, deep down; those feelings get pretty complicated when you’re in fourth grade, believe you me), but by the third or fourth day you’re ready to go all Poltergeist vomit creature on her ass.

So pardon me for assuming that Alex’s erotic facial expressions would be the worst of the Food Network bunch. Untrue, reveals Food Network Humor. Turns out everyone looks pretty silly putting on an O-face over a bite of paella (or, in Rachel Ray’s case, a ham and cheese sandwich).

The Rob Gordon character in High Fidelity remarks, “fetish properties are not unlike porn. I’d feel bad taking [vinyl geeks'] money, if I wasn’t, well, kinda one of them.” That’s more or less the driving principle behind the Food Network. It’s salivary gland masturbation for people who can’t cook, and the satisfaction level is roughy the culinary equivelant of wacking off — less mess, but the emptiness is the same and the incidence of drool is roughly equal (am I doing it wrong?). They’d feel bad too, if they weren’t, well, worse than the rest of us.

I admit, with my dwindling family becoming older, more senile, and more frail by the day, we’ve been known to phone in our holiday meals — literally. But its not the same, and if you’re under the age of, say, 60, you have no excuse not to throw down on your own Thanksgiving dinner. I’d do it myself, but I’m generally too busy wheeling around the olds to get my stuffing on.

WTPWB already had its staff Thanksgiving (made easier by the fact that we live in the same house). I got pwn3d by an unforgiving recipe for pumpkin pie, which ended up being “pumpkin slop you can put over ice cream, if only we had ice cream,” but fuck it, that’s half the fun.

Still, if you’ve gotta cop out, stick with Brooklyn Based and you’ll be coppin’ out in style, and at reasonable prices! We can vouch for Marlow, their sons, their daughters, iCi, and Applewood.

• Huckleberry Bar
• Group bisexuality, inevitably leading to an
• Unmitigated fuckfest.

We walked right by the pilot screening last night, unknowingly, but by the looks of the trailer, well, three rights sometimes make a wrong. One NY Mag commenter pretty much nails it: “why does this look like a homemade gay coming of age movie from the early nineties?”

That’s a good question, because most of those movies sucked.

Although while I’m here, I’d like to take this opportunity to pitch MY new pilot, a dramedy about a group of overambitious, bisexual line chefs. It’s called Chopped & Screwed. Bidding starts now.

Which is why it always helps to throw a good personal insult whenever you’re reviewing something, like this, that I wrote about Wombat in Williamsburg a while back:

Been here thrice, and the last time was the first I’ve deviated from the oyster/lobster specials and ordered off the menu. The beef ribs were straight up gross … sort of the culinary equivalent of the schlubby gut guy on Aqua Teen Hunger Force, and our waiter (a bit of a schlubby gut guy himself, come to think of it) made some pretty hilarious service mistakes, including bringing one in our party three oysters when she had ordered 12, and adding an extra beer on our tab.

The side dishes are good. Matter of fact, if they ditched all the entrees and kept the sandwiches and bar food, I’d probably bump up my rating.

Seemed innocuous enough — even generous, given that I rated it a 3/5 — at the time, although, as I wrote in a follow-up post, i do concede that “schlubby gut guy” is something of a mean-spirited sobriquet.

Long about two weeks later, I get this over Yelp’s private messaging:

schlubby??? i know ive let myself go, but really. but i bet it was really busy. so it can be tough. u understand right?? im just guy tryin to get buy. no surprise?!?, but i dont want to be a bartender/waiter my whole life. i want to be just like you. an asshole who stays up at night writing shitty reviews. perhaps its not the service.

ITS YOU.

I notice that one of the most common counterattacks on Yelp — really, on all the anonymous web — is to simply hold up a mirror, claiming that — what? — my criticism is somehow a byproduct of my insecurities or something. I’ll hold that debate for another time, maybe its true, I don’t know, doesn’t matter. The food still sucked. So I wrote back:

nah, like i said, i’m pretty sure it was the incompetent service and the crappy food.

In fairness to everyone, though, I’ll go ahead and post your message on the restaurant’s page — I’m sure everyone will want to know the aplomb with which you accept criticism.

Which I fully intended to do, except that about five seconds later, schlubby gut guy gets back at me with this:

ah, i was hacked, i have no idea what you’re talking about? i work in a museum i’ll reset my password, oh and i did not send you a message

Theres another web excuse du jour. “I was hacked” … surely “the hackers” have better things to do than write nasty things to people on Yelp. Things like breaking into your mail and posting all those nasty pics your girlfriend took of you online. Things like that. Anyway, the rest of it goes this way:

Me: oh yeah? what museum?
schlubby gut guy: none of your beezwax, what restaurant were you writing about?
Me: The one you work at dumbfuck.
schlubby gut guy: way to get a riled up i seriously did not write you that message, but you can go on hating me douchebag, sounds like you have a swell life to get all fucking mad on yelp of all places, what a loser,

(sic).

As promised, I posted all of that right on the restaurant’s page, and re-rated the restaurant, giving it one out of five stars, the lowest possible rating. OH BOY did that set off a shitstorm. A few hours later, I got a message from someone purporting to be the owner — and I have no reason to believe it wasn’t — telling me he was, well, read for yourself:

Jeff, I am sorry you have had a bad experience at my restaurant. I am also quite sure that none of my employees have made this alleged contact with you. As with any restaurant, we can not be all things to all people but do our best to be a nice, friendly neighborhood place with good food and drink. As far as the beef ribs go, we have tweaked them and they are what they should be.
Regards,
Craig, Owner, Wombat

I hope by “tweaked,” he means they’re no longer slow-cooking those ribs by tossing them in the summer sun for a few hours. I’ll never know. As for the other things they’re “doing their best” at, fail, fail and more fail. Later that day I got a message from yet another Yelper (they call themselves that. If I ever write that again find me and shoot me, thanks), claiming to be the REAL schlubby gut guy, who said it definitely wasn’t him.. yadda yadda. I then offered for them to somehow prove to me they weren’t trying to game me, and never heard back.

Better to be hated than ignored.

[Wombat on Yelp]