Bruni Out of Tune

Dara writes:

Just when I was feeling badly I had not yet posted on the recent development in the world of New York Times' chief restaurant critic Frank Bruni, Bruni lets loose another gust of bad wind that makes me kind of glad I waited.

To begin: the ranting letter written against him by restaurateur Jeffrey Chodorow. Chodorow has opened several successful restaurants, including China Grill and Asia de Cuba, and several disastrous ones, such as Rocco's, the demise of which television chronicled. Chodorow's $40,000 Times' ad opposite Bruni's column responded to Bruni's no-star review of Chodorow's latest venture, Kobe Club. In his rant, Chodorow recoils not from the negativity per se, but from what he considers Bruni's ad hominem attack. Chodorow complains that the "unfair" review hurts not him, as he is battle-worn and tough, but his servers and kitchen staff.

As Mimi Sheraton, former New York Times' chief restaurant critic, brilliantly asserts on Slate, Chodorow is in fact the one hurt--by his own letter. Now, all those unaware of the negative review will be aware of it. Moreover, by attesting to the critic's influence, Chodorow merely served to increase Bruni's power.

Too bad, because I have really started to dislike Bruni. While I may not agree with Chodorow's view--many other critics also panned Kobe Club--I do agree that Bruni tends toward the ad hominem, as I have already made abundantly clear on this very blog. Now, just today, we see that Bruni is also capable of agressing ad feminam.

Witness today's NYT review of the steakhouse inside the Penthouse Executive Club.

“Foxy,” I began, then stopped myself, wondering if I was being too familiar. “Are you and I on a first-name basis, or should I address you as Ms. Foxy?”

“You can call me Dr. Foxy,” she said.

“Is that an M.D. or a Ph.D.?”

“Yes,” she answered.

Now, this rudeness has already been addressed on Gastroporn, but I have to second that blogger's comment assailing Bruni for being so condescending to this Penthouse worker. On the NYT website, a "multimedia" show accompanies Bruni's article, on which you can relish such photo captions as:

Look at that meat. On the plate, I mean.

It's not so much that I think Bruni is demeaning women, as much as I think he is being awkward and dumb. Gridskipper has reported that Mr. Bruni is gay; maybe his being in a straight strip joint made him profoundly uncomfortable and he acted out. Unfortunately, his writing bore the brunt of whatever psychic burden being around nude women loaded on his shoulders. To wit:

You can find bliss in the soulless cradle of a strip mall. Why not the topless clutch of a strip club?

Get it? Get the parallels? I used to like Bruni's puns, but now I find he is precious and annoying when trying to make so many cute literary twists.

I am curious to see Bruni's next move. Many others are now also tuned in, including, my favorite post on the Strip Snafu, Feminist Law Professors.

Viewing Volver

Dara writes:

I finally saw Almodovar's latest film Volver yesterday, and while I liked it and am glad I saw it, I didn't find it one of his best or as good as his three most recent films, such as Talk to Her and All About My Mother. As visually stunning as those films, Volver didn't hit me on a gut level as even Bad Education did. The story, of a group of women whose difficult and tragic lives are intertwined, and who, in the absence of men or presence of bad ones, help one another survive, struck me as a very idealized view of women that felt contrived.

The story begins with an extremely campy view of women cleaning tombstones in a graveyard. Our heroine, Raimunda (Penelope Cruz), worries about her elderly aunt, who has become senile. Raimunda's sister, Sole (Lola Duenas), fears a ghost lives with Tia Paula. When the sisters leave the small Spanish town to return to their homes, Sole in Madrid and Raimunda outside Madrid, the aunt's troubles fade into the background as Raimunda has much larger fish to fry: the death of her husband. Raimunda tackles all the obstacles in her path in charming get-ups of red skirts and cleavage-bearing purple sweaters. Almodovar very lovingly photographs Cruz. We linger on the gold religious medallions hanging between her breasts, on her breasts, her eyeliner, her perfect profile, her tousled hair. I have never seen such a beautiful actress. Sofia Loren times ten. The friend with whom I saw the movie complained that Cruz did not find her acting rhythm until thirty minutes into the film. I was so focused on her gorgeousness I did not even notice.

As usual, Almodovar's visual world stunned me, and I was happy to be a part of it, as no one does color better than he does. But the movie bored me by the end, and several elements did not add up. One of the coterie of women is Raimunda's opposite: shaved head where she has luscious black locks, no makeup where Raimunda's eyes are kohl-rimmed, cardigans versus bustiers. But I could not figure out what this foil was supposed to represent.

I saw Bad Education in the Floridablanca theater in Barcelona before I spoke Spanish. Without subtitles, I could not grasp the whole plot. Still, because Almodovar's language is visceral and visual, I got it. It moved me. Strangely, Volver, though I could comprehend it all, stirred me less.

Sublime Sushi

Dara writes:

I made a reservation for me and James for Valentine's Day only two weeks in advance, so I knew I could not hit up the usual romantic New York suspects. Instead, I chose a sushi restaurant considered sublime by those in the know, but not flashy like Nobu, Megu, Masa, Morimoto. I chose Sushi Yasuda, on a Little Tokyo block near the UN.

From the second we walked in, at an early 6pm (even two weeks ahead I could only secure an early reservation), I knew we were in for an experience. The sushi chefs, all five of them, heartily greeted us, as did the staff. We sat at the sushi bar, where a Hawaiian tea leaf garnished with ginger and wasabi was promptly placed in front of us. A server brought over warm towels so we could wash our hands because, as as I learned that night, sushi can be eaten with ones hands. (What an ideal beginning for a germaphobe like me!) We ordered dry cold sake and two kinds of fish to start: flash-fried striped bass with pickled radish on top, and sake-soaked black cod. Both were outstanding. The second we finished the plates, servers whisked them away. The second I took more than three sips from my water, it was replenished. I have read that service, for example in department stores, in Japan is phenomenal. I had my first taste of it that night.

Basically, we had our own private sushi chef. He would give us a piece of sushi, we would eat it, muse about what we wanted next, and then he would prepare it for us. What a delightful way to eat! I can't say it was the most romantic meal, since it was almost like eating in a kitchen, but it was a way to learn about fish, knife work, and Japanese traditions. We ordered Spanish mackerel, yellowtail, giant clam, sea urchin, squid, cuttlefish, and a toro scallion roll. The roll was the only thing we dipped in soy sauce. The chef prepared the fish in a bit of sauce or sea salt and told us simply to pick it up with our hands and eat it. The fish was clean and delicious, on perfectly warm sushi rice.

The standouts: toro was buttery and divinely rich. We asked the chef's recommendation to end the meal, and he gave us two heavenly chunks of Alaskan crab, decorated with squeezed lemon and sea salt. Sweet and luscious. But here were my two favorites: a sea scallop from Massachusetts and white freshwater eel. I had never had raw scallops before; these were so sweet and succulent. The chef apparently prizes domestic fish, and this was an excellent specimen. The chef's press materials say he is an eel expert, and I would corroborate that from the eel I tasted, the best I have ever tasted. Usually sushi eel is kind of hard and blocklike, apparently because chefs re-heat the eel in a toaster oven. Our chef took raw eel and cooked it in front of us on a small grill. The result was the kindest, tastiest, most tender flesh. Changed the way I think about that sea creature.

The second we told the chef we were full our tea leaf was withdrawn, our plates carried off. We received a complimentary brown tea and the bill. Expensive, but worth every penny. The cheapest trip to Tokyo I can imagine. When I went to the restroom on the way out and heard someone speaking English, I was thoroughly disoriented.