It’s the first week of school in New York and I’ve gone undercover in an undisclosed public school in New York City. There are 1.1 million children in the city’s school system and, of those, 860,000 eat a school-provided lunch. No matter how bunched the panties or swarmy the buzz gets about restaurants like the newly opened Bar Primi or the reincarnation of Mission Chinese (thank the Lord!) or, holy fucking shit, Cherche Midi (as if we need more mediocre French food), the school lunch is by far the most important meal in New York. At 11:30 a.m. every school day for the next nine months, 860,000 children will squirm about or fidget over a city-provided lunch. That’s a lot of covers. It would take Momofuku Ko nearly a century to feed that many mouths. School lunch is like all of China jumping on the culinary scene at once. It’s orbit-shifting, for the lives of the students and, because they are the future, for us, too.Rote Cuisine: Finding Epicurean Delight in the Maze of NYC’s School Lunch System  [NYO]
It’s the first week of school in New York and I’ve gone undercover in an undisclosed public school in New York City. There are 1.1 million children in the city’s school system and, of those, 860,000 eat a school-provided lunch. No matter how bunched the panties or swarmy the buzz gets about restaurants like the newly opened Bar Primi or the reincarnation of Mission Chinese (thank the Lord!) or, holy fucking shit, Cherche Midi (as if we need more mediocre French food), the school lunch is by far the most important meal in New York. At 11:30 a.m. every school day for the next nine months, 860,000 children will squirm about or fidget over a city-provided lunch. That’s a lot of covers. It would take Momofuku Ko nearly a century to feed that many mouths. School lunch is like all of China jumping on the culinary scene at once. It’s orbit-shifting, for the lives of the students and, because they are the future, for us, too.Rote Cuisine: Finding Epicurean Delight in the Maze of NYC’s School Lunch System  [NYO]

It’s the first week of school in New York and I’ve gone undercover in an undisclosed public school in New York City. There are 1.1 million children in the city’s school system and, of those, 860,000 eat a school-provided lunch. No matter how bunched the panties or swarmy the buzz gets about restaurants like the newly opened Bar Primi or the reincarnation of Mission Chinese (thank the Lord!) or, holy fucking shit, Cherche Midi (as if we need more mediocre French food), the school lunch is by far the most important meal in New York. At 11:30 a.m. every school day for the next nine months, 860,000 children will squirm about or fidget over a city-provided lunch. That’s a lot of covers. It would take Momofuku Ko nearly a century to feed that many mouths. School lunch is like all of China jumping on the culinary scene at once. It’s orbit-shifting, for the lives of the students and, because they are the future, for us, too.

Rote Cuisine: Finding Epicurean Delight in the Maze of NYC’s School Lunch System  [NYO]

The 5:30pm Lucky Streak Greyhound was nearly empty yesterday as it pulled out of Port Authority Bus Terminal on its way to Atlantic City. Years ago, the service would have been full of gamblers from New York, drawn to the blinkering promise of Atlantic City casinos. It made stops at Bally’s, Caesars, Showboat, Tropicana, Trump Taj Majal and Trump Plaza, disgorging those unlucky enough to count themselves lucky.
The Lonesome Death of Atlantic City’s Trump Plaza Casino [NYM]
The 5:30pm Lucky Streak Greyhound was nearly empty yesterday as it pulled out of Port Authority Bus Terminal on its way to Atlantic City. Years ago, the service would have been full of gamblers from New York, drawn to the blinkering promise of Atlantic City casinos. It made stops at Bally’s, Caesars, Showboat, Tropicana, Trump Taj Majal and Trump Plaza, disgorging those unlucky enough to count themselves lucky.
The Lonesome Death of Atlantic City’s Trump Plaza Casino [NYM]
The 5:30pm Lucky Streak Greyhound was nearly empty yesterday as it pulled out of Port Authority Bus Terminal on its way to Atlantic City. Years ago, the service would have been full of gamblers from New York, drawn to the blinkering promise of Atlantic City casinos. It made stops at Bally’s, Caesars, Showboat, Tropicana, Trump Taj Majal and Trump Plaza, disgorging those unlucky enough to count themselves lucky.
The Lonesome Death of Atlantic City’s Trump Plaza Casino [NYM]

The 5:30pm Lucky Streak Greyhound was nearly empty yesterday as it pulled out of Port Authority Bus Terminal on its way to Atlantic City. Years ago, the service would have been full of gamblers from New York, drawn to the blinkering promise of Atlantic City casinos. It made stops at Bally’s, Caesars, Showboat, Tropicana, Trump Taj Majal and Trump Plaza, disgorging those unlucky enough to count themselves lucky.

The Lonesome Death of Atlantic City’s Trump Plaza Casino [NYM]

My future ribeye fixed me with his obsidian eyes from his pasture of clover on a farm in Upstate New York. In fact, a couple of my ribeyes did so: a filet mignon and a few dozen future burgers, too. My meals were, as yet, unrealized. For now, they were this cow—the one with tag #38 on his ear.
How I Met My Meat [Munchies]
My future ribeye fixed me with his obsidian eyes from his pasture of clover on a farm in Upstate New York. In fact, a couple of my ribeyes did so: a filet mignon and a few dozen future burgers, too. My meals were, as yet, unrealized. For now, they were this cow—the one with tag #38 on his ear.
How I Met My Meat [Munchies]

My future ribeye fixed me with his obsidian eyes from his pasture of clover on a farm in Upstate New York. In fact, a couple of my ribeyes did so: a filet mignon and a few dozen future burgers, too. My meals were, as yet, unrealized. For now, they were this cow—the one with tag #38 on his ear.

How I Met My Meat [Munchies]

 

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Only assholes make that face so common in food movies where, after a bite of whatever, a sous-vide Japanese eggplant carbuncle, the diner closes his eyes, sharply inhales through his nose and then slowly sighs. No matter how delicious, well-executed, or imaginative the bite may be or how sensitive or appreciative or finely-tuned the diner and his palate are that just doesn’t happen in real life and when it does, it happens because the diner has seen too many gauzy fellatic food films. It’s the foodie version of fake orgasming.

Review: The Trip to Italy is Brilliant Mumblecore Food Porn [Eat The Movies]

Of the exceptional character of the humble egg there can be no doubt. Mankind would clam up and shut down if not for the munificent offices of the eggy weg.
Set aside, for a moment, omelets, scrambles and slithery poaches. Ignore the hard-boiled ephors in their shapely holders. There would be no hollandaise without eggs, no muffins, no frescos, no Mork and Mindy. And yet the egg has never been properly thanked. No one has ever met an egg he didn’t want to beat, boil or break. Eggs are the unloved enablers of a million meals.
The Fault in Our Eggs: Nick Korbee Attempts to Relaunch a Symbol of Life at Egg Shop [NYO]
Of the exceptional character of the humble egg there can be no doubt. Mankind would clam up and shut down if not for the munificent offices of the eggy weg.
Set aside, for a moment, omelets, scrambles and slithery poaches. Ignore the hard-boiled ephors in their shapely holders. There would be no hollandaise without eggs, no muffins, no frescos, no Mork and Mindy. And yet the egg has never been properly thanked. No one has ever met an egg he didn’t want to beat, boil or break. Eggs are the unloved enablers of a million meals.
The Fault in Our Eggs: Nick Korbee Attempts to Relaunch a Symbol of Life at Egg Shop [NYO]

Of the exceptional character of the humble egg there can be no doubt. Mankind would clam up and shut down if not for the munificent offices of the eggy weg.

Set aside, for a moment, omelets, scrambles and slithery poaches. Ignore the hard-boiled ephors in their shapely holders. There would be no hollandaise without eggs, no muffins, no frescos, no Mork and Mindy. And yet the egg has never been properly thanked. No one has ever met an egg he didn’t want to beat, boil or break. Eggs are the unloved enablers of a million meals.

The Fault in Our Eggs: Nick Korbee Attempts to Relaunch a Symbol of Life at Egg Shop [NYO]

This is the history of one man’s love affair with a country not his own told through fucking awesome. The man is Seamus Mullen, the 40-year-old chef and owner of the lauded West Village tapas restaurant Tertulia; the country is Spain and the fucking awesome is otherwise known as cojonudo. Besides being an enthusiastic ejaculation en espagnol loosely translated to “fucking awesome,” cojonudo is the ur-pincho, the mother of all tapas, and perhaps the most delicious bite in the world.
Found in Translation: How a Spanish Delicacy Wooed Tertulia Chef Seamus Mullen [Edible Manhattan]
This is the history of one man’s love affair with a country not his own told through fucking awesome. The man is Seamus Mullen, the 40-year-old chef and owner of the lauded West Village tapas restaurant Tertulia; the country is Spain and the fucking awesome is otherwise known as cojonudo. Besides being an enthusiastic ejaculation en espagnol loosely translated to “fucking awesome,” cojonudo is the ur-pincho, the mother of all tapas, and perhaps the most delicious bite in the world.
Found in Translation: How a Spanish Delicacy Wooed Tertulia Chef Seamus Mullen [Edible Manhattan]
This is the history of one man’s love affair with a country not his own told through fucking awesome. The man is Seamus Mullen, the 40-year-old chef and owner of the lauded West Village tapas restaurant Tertulia; the country is Spain and the fucking awesome is otherwise known as cojonudo. Besides being an enthusiastic ejaculation en espagnol loosely translated to “fucking awesome,” cojonudo is the ur-pincho, the mother of all tapas, and perhaps the most delicious bite in the world.
Found in Translation: How a Spanish Delicacy Wooed Tertulia Chef Seamus Mullen [Edible Manhattan]

This is the history of one man’s love affair with a country not his own told through fucking awesome. The man is Seamus Mullen, the 40-year-old chef and owner of the lauded West Village tapas restaurant Tertulia; the country is Spain and the fucking awesome is otherwise known as cojonudo. Besides being an enthusiastic ejaculation en espagnol loosely translated to “fucking awesome,” cojonudo is the ur-pincho, the mother of all tapas, and perhaps the most delicious bite in the world.

Found in Translation: How a Spanish Delicacy Wooed Tertulia Chef Seamus Mullen [Edible Manhattan]

A graph of Saturday Night Live’s household ratings creates a shape like the Matterhorn over the show’s first five years, followed by a sheer rock face in the early ’80s that flattens into a long alluvial plain gently sloping down to the present, with modest hillocks and troughs along the way. 
SNL vs. The World: A Statisticalish Survey [Grantland]
A graph of Saturday Night Live’s household ratings creates a shape like the Matterhorn over the show’s first five years, followed by a sheer rock face in the early ’80s that flattens into a long alluvial plain gently sloping down to the present, with modest hillocks and troughs along the way. 
SNL vs. The World: A Statisticalish Survey [Grantland]

A graph of Saturday Night Live’s household ratings creates a shape like the Matterhorn over the show’s first five years, followed by a sheer rock face in the early ’80s that flattens into a long alluvial plain gently sloping down to the present, with modest hillocks and troughs along the way. 

SNL vs. The World: A Statisticalish Survey [Grantland]

The roof deck of the Soho House in New York’s Meatpacking District was recently redone in kiln-dried oak as part of an extensive renovation. But on the first day of summer this year, you couldn’t tell. The planks were invisible beneath a multitude of glamorous people: men svelte and women winsome, the members of the Soho House resemble an empyrean of the bold and beautiful. Some rooftops have gardens. This one had gods.
Soho House Founder: Nick Jones [NUVO]
The roof deck of the Soho House in New York’s Meatpacking District was recently redone in kiln-dried oak as part of an extensive renovation. But on the first day of summer this year, you couldn’t tell. The planks were invisible beneath a multitude of glamorous people: men svelte and women winsome, the members of the Soho House resemble an empyrean of the bold and beautiful. Some rooftops have gardens. This one had gods.
Soho House Founder: Nick Jones [NUVO]
The roof deck of the Soho House in New York’s Meatpacking District was recently redone in kiln-dried oak as part of an extensive renovation. But on the first day of summer this year, you couldn’t tell. The planks were invisible beneath a multitude of glamorous people: men svelte and women winsome, the members of the Soho House resemble an empyrean of the bold and beautiful. Some rooftops have gardens. This one had gods.
Soho House Founder: Nick Jones [NUVO]

The roof deck of the Soho House in New York’s Meatpacking District was recently redone in kiln-dried oak as part of an extensive renovation. But on the first day of summer this year, you couldn’t tell. The planks were invisible beneath a multitude of glamorous people: men svelte and women winsome, the members of the Soho House resemble an empyrean of the bold and beautiful. Some rooftops have gardens. This one had gods.

Soho House Founder: Nick Jones [NUVO]

Though I didn’t especially enjoy the films, man, did those guys look great. What could be more salutary to a battered ego than transubstantiating into warrior material?
How I Turned Myself Into a Spartan (And Why Every Man Should) [MadeMan]
Though I didn’t especially enjoy the films, man, did those guys look great. What could be more salutary to a battered ego than transubstantiating into warrior material?
How I Turned Myself Into a Spartan (And Why Every Man Should) [MadeMan]

Though I didn’t especially enjoy the films, man, did those guys look great. What could be more salutary to a battered ego than transubstantiating into warrior material?

How I Turned Myself Into a Spartan (And Why Every Man Should) [MadeMan]