Yesterday I went to lunch at a deli downtown. After ordering a pastrami, the server (not a young kid, either!) asked me if I wanted that on white bread?...with mayonnaise? !
"What do you have against innocent Jews?" I shouted. "Are you trying to kill them?" Apparently she was unaware of Rule #1:
"On rye! Rye! With brown mustard!" Sigh. What can you do?
L
A Drinking Problem
There are a few articles of faith in my admittedly jaundiced worldview, precious few things that I believe to be right and true and basically unimprovable by man or God. This, however, is one of them: A properly poured beer or ale, in my case a hand-cranked Guinness - in a clean glass of correct temperature is God's Own Beverage, a complete and nutritious food source, a thing of beauty to be admired, a force that sweeps away, for a time, all the world's troubles.
So I am contentedly watching the foam settle in my glass at the festering Ferret in London's East End, momentarily at peace with the world, contemplating life's mysteries, planning future good works. I'm smoking, admiring the cracked leather seats, the moldering century-old carpet, the box-shaped, nearly toothless, geriatric bartender. I'm running my hand over my worn wood table as if it were the Rosetta stone, deciphering with my fingertips the cryptic, possibly pre-Druidic messages inscribed there - "Stiv is a cunt," "Bay City Rollers," "Jamie is a mockney shite" - their echoes resonating through the ages, connecting me with poets and thinkers of another age.
A waiter approaches, draws my attention to a blackboard on the wall, and says, "Would you care for something to eat, sir? The osso buco of Chilean sea bass is particularly good today." I look up with horror. There, to the right of a well-punctured dartboard, is a portent of True Horror. A real menu! I read it with growing apprehension and dismay, an icy tendril of fear, probing my gut: "Soup of fresh green peas with chiffonade of crisp prosciutto and pumpkin froth"; "Tartelette of foie gras with apricot chutney and house-made brioche"; "Cruelty-free noisette of pork with snow peas and caramelised shallots."
Even worse, there is an entire vegetarian section, segregated to the left side of the board. Just before I collapse, shaking, to the beer-sodden floor, I read in the dessert section: "Green apple sorbet with wasabi." Then everything goes black.
The next thing I am aware of is my fingertips being pried from the fleshy folds of the bar-hag's throat. A large fellow in a chef's coat and apron is doing the prying. A well-scrubbed young commis is assisting by beating me about the head and neck with a saucepot. (Copper, I notice, and well maintained at that.) Through broken teeth and a foam of bloody spittle, I manage to splutter, "What? When? How? Why?" before breaking down into convulsive sobs: "Oh, God! It's awful! The end is here! It's over! My life is over!" As I release my grip, the bald fellow exclaims, while keeping a knee on my thorax, "We're a gastro-pub now. Can I fix you up with some tofu and wild mushroom beignets? They're lovely." Which is when I make a futile grab for the nearest blunt object and the commis lets me have it with the saucepot.
Gastro-pub? What the f--- is that? For me, fancy food in a traditional pub is about as inviting as the phrases "Hot male-on-male action" or "Tonight! Billy Joel live!" or "Free prostate exam with every drink." A good pub should never have fine food. What's wrong with a good meat pie? Black pudding? Shepherd's pie is a beautiful thing. I don't want truffles in it! And a vegetarian menu? In a pub? Vegetarians in a pub? For their own good, vegetarians should never be allowed near the fine beers and ales. It will only make them loud and belligerent, and they lack the physical strength and aggressive nature to back up any drunken assertions.
The British pub is one of the last bastions of goodness, civility, and decency in the world. Who wants annoying foodies in their local? They'll infest the place. They'll multiply like cockroaches. Soon, a sip will barely have passed your lips before you overhear, "Have you tried the salmon confit with tomato water? It's fabulous!" or "I'd like the basil gelato, please."
There'll be no place to run, friends, and no place to hide. The enemy might as well be camped in your sitting room, buggering your pooch, biting the heads off your budgies, and playing Kyle CDs at ear-splitting volume. Good beer and fancy food should be kept separate. A firewall between them, like church and state. That wall crumples and all will be chaos.
Anthony Bourdain, The Nasty Bits, pp 163-165.