Who said it?

Foxwoods Fiend or Foodie at Fifteen.

1. I had never smoked. I'd heard it's addictive, that once you start you never stop. Supposedly it relaxes you, makes you feel good. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I'm talking about smoking on a grill.

2. I realize that a place like Masa isn’t really trying to achieve the same meal experience as Nobu and that the appeal of Masa is more in its subtle flavoring and amazing cuts of fish (something as over-the-top flavorful and decadent as the Nobu miso cod lettuce wraps, for instance, would be very out of place). But still, I think that there were too many items on the menu that just didn’t really do it for me.

3. So here I am, sitting at my computer, deep in food coma. I'm back where I was last year, and the year before- asking myshttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifelf if I really needed that extra helping of pie. As I contemplate Thanksgiving, I determine the answer to be yes. My life wouldn't be the same without that gooey mess of fat and sugar that is pecan pie.

4. I lost credit card roulette and the bill was $3400. $3400 for 4 people. Ansky, Krantz, and I got the ome beef which was an extra $140 per person (definitely worth it) and we had a ton of sake, but the bill was still ridiculous.

5. He told me he could only eat one duck confit leg, but he could eat a whole turkey. "I've accepted duck confit. I know it, and I'm over it" he said. "I guess I don't know it, I could eat five duck confit legs" I said. "Yea well you still get hard-ons in math class." I told him I get hard-ons when I eat duck confit.

6. I got the call from the dean of admissions as I was picking up my pizza at CPK in the airport, so between getting into HLS and getting to eat a Thai Chicken pizza it was definitely one of the better layovers in recent memory.


Answer Bank: Foxwoods Fiend, Foodie at Fifteen

recess!

I wasn't fired per se, but my employers chose not to continue their relationship with me; hard times. En plus, I'm out of local lemongrass, and the Greenmarket, cruelly, sold all its kabochas to Thomas Keller. On the plus side, I'm not nonplussed. I embrace opportunity, I apply to all the cocinas mexicanas refinadas in a two-block radius of my apartment (there are three). I bought expensive leggings that look like fish scales, is that kosher in this economic climate? I should scale back.

I'm going to LA to convalesce from the valence I've constructed these past few weeks. Provisional itinerary includes walking to and from the Valley, running up and down hills, reconnecting with my roots however rhizomatic, circumlocuting with Abram, making a circuit court of the city...I think that's it.

empty november

At work, I learn the "dance." I stand at the "pass," I get my wet wipes, I scan for fingerprints or stray sprays of "périgourdine." When I "drop," I "hug" the guest warmly between quotation marks. I come home truffle-infused.

In this (sous-vide) pressure-cooker environment, I try to inject levity as artfully as "sauce Mornay" is piped into pâte à choux:

Artless Kitchen Server: So the "tagliatelle" is basically blanched celery root sliced into "ribbons," so it looks like pasta, then...
Me: So it's not tagliatelle per se...
AKS: Well it's the "celeriac tagliatelle"...

I've quickly learned this is not a good idea, and to focus instead on my "intensity" and "finesse." The confidentiality agreement I signed, while not per se invalid per se, I'm pretty sure amounts to nothing; what if I just always put the restaurant's name in quotes, so as to differentiate the real restaurant from my own interpretation of it?