It’s another beautiful day at Broadfield, the 2,300-hectare sporting club at Sea Island resort in the south of Georgia, and Chris Kennedy, a master falconer there, is eyeing the trees. They’re live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and they form a forest that’s cut by a narrow path—the path Kennedy walks along. Kennedy, a 28-year-old, is pensive. “Falconry,” he says, “is all about patience.” He pauses after a couple of steps to listen for the telltale dull tinker of the tracking bell that’s strapped to the leg of Doyle, a 14-year-old male Harris hawk and one of the six birds he uses to hunt on the estate.
Falconer Chris Kennedy [NUVO]

It’s another beautiful day at Broadfield, the 2,300-hectare sporting club at Sea Island resort in the south of Georgia, and Chris Kennedy, a master falconer there, is eyeing the trees. They’re live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and they form a forest that’s cut by a narrow path—the path Kennedy walks along. Kennedy, a 28-year-old, is pensive. “Falconry,” he says, “is all about patience.” He pauses after a couple of steps to listen for the telltale dull tinker of the tracking bell that’s strapped to the leg of Doyle, a 14-year-old male Harris hawk and one of the six birds he uses to hunt on the estate.

Falconer Chris Kennedy [NUVO]

"A dozen oysters are like refreshing, elegant little jewels on a hot July day," says April Bloomfield, the famed chef and proud ignorer of the rule that you should only eat oysters in months whose names contain the letter r. Avoiding oysters in the summer might have made sense before things like refrigeration and FedEx, but now they can be plucked from chilled waters and arrive shucked in front of customers without ever feeling the summer heat — meaning you should follow Bloomfield’s advice over any inherited wisdom you’ve heard in the past.
8 Oysters You Should Be Eating This Summer [NYM]

"A dozen oysters are like refreshing, elegant little jewels on a hot July day," says April Bloomfield, the famed chef and proud ignorer of the rule that you should only eat oysters in months whose names contain the letter r. Avoiding oysters in the summer might have made sense before things like refrigeration and FedEx, but now they can be plucked from chilled waters and arrive shucked in front of customers without ever feeling the summer heat — meaning you should follow Bloomfield’s advice over any inherited wisdom you’ve heard in the past.

8 Oysters You Should Be Eating This Summer [NYM]

Last week I gave the new Russ & Daughters Cafe five out of five stars. I was bowled over by it. I’ve given places five stars before, starting with ABC Cocina and including Luksus and Bustan. In hindsight, as the bloom wears off, I’ve sometimes wondered if I was too generous or starry-eyed. Such is the life of a critic, or at least this critic, who tends to find himself more passionate than dispassionate.
Did I Give Russ & Daughters Five Stars Because of the Holocaust? [NYO]

Last week I gave the new Russ & Daughters Cafe five out of five stars. I was bowled over by it. I’ve given places five stars before, starting with ABC Cocina and including Luksus and Bustan. In hindsight, as the bloom wears off, I’ve sometimes wondered if I was too generous or starry-eyed. Such is the life of a critic, or at least this critic, who tends to find himself more passionate than dispassionate.

Did I Give Russ & Daughters Five Stars Because of the Holocaust? [NYO]

For a Jew, “Am I bringing you a bagel or bialy?” is a blessing masked as a question. But coming from my waiter at Russ & Daughters Cafe, the new sit-down expansion of the legendary Russ and Daughters Appetizing Store, the query was especially benedictive.  Genesis on the Lower East Side [NYO] 
 

For a Jew, “Am I bringing you a bagel or bialy?” is a blessing masked as a question. But coming from my waiter at Russ & Daughters Cafe, the new sit-down expansion of the legendary Russ and Daughters Appetizing Store, the query was especially benedictive. 
 
Genesis on the Lower East Side [NYO

 

It’s been hours since I had meat, a fennel-sausage from the Whole Foods breakfast bar. It’s been a day since I had my last burger, a dry-aged beauty with bloody rivulets from the Nomad Bar in New York City. And it’s been two days since I ate a 120-day aged tomahawk chop from Osteria Morini. I am a meat-eater, avowedly, virulently, and prodigiously.
Confessions of a Self-Loathing Carnivore [Eater]

It’s been hours since I had meat, a fennel-sausage from the Whole Foods breakfast bar. It’s been a day since I had my last burger, a dry-aged beauty with bloody rivulets from the Nomad Bar in New York City. And it’s been two days since I ate a 120-day aged tomahawk chop from Osteria Morini. I am a meat-eater, avowedly, virulently, and prodigiously.

Confessions of a Self-Loathing Carnivore [Eater]

Nachos are often consumed in a space where it is loud, by the flickering light of a flat screen television across whose digital skin run sporting men and chyrons. This is a shame. Nachos deserve love. They need attention. They just can’t call out for it. Perhaps because their cries are drowned under a blanket of airtight insulation, like cheese, or because their gullets are clogged with bits of pork. Perhaps because chives and sour cream conspire to stifle their moans or, more likely, because they are nachos and can’t talk.
Juicy Wet Nachos Are The Only Kind I’ll Put In My Mouth [MUNCHIES]

Nachos are often consumed in a space where it is loud, by the flickering light of a flat screen television across whose digital skin run sporting men and chyrons. This is a shame. Nachos deserve love. They need attention. They just can’t call out for it. Perhaps because their cries are drowned under a blanket of airtight insulation, like cheese, or because their gullets are clogged with bits of pork. Perhaps because chives and sour cream conspire to stifle their moans or, more likely, because they are nachos and can’t talk.

Juicy Wet Nachos Are The Only Kind I’ll Put In My Mouth [MUNCHIES]

As we’re inundated with think-pieces on how a nation’s style of play reflects their national character I can’t help but wonder what or how might the United States foreign and domestic policy shift if, instead of relying on football and baseball, perhaps the President thought of the field of international events as a soccer pitch. Granted, there aren’t a lot of soccer metaphors but what does he pay his speech writers for anyway?
How a US Soccer Win Might Save America [Observer]

As we’re inundated with think-pieces on how a nation’s style of play reflects their national character I can’t help but wonder what or how might the United States foreign and domestic policy shift if, instead of relying on football and baseball, perhaps the President thought of the field of international events as a soccer pitch. Granted, there aren’t a lot of soccer metaphors but what does he pay his speech writers for anyway?

How a US Soccer Win Might Save America [Observer]

Sometimes I wonder what Travis Bickle would think of Jack Byrnes or how the Terminator T-800 model would gaze upon the Terminator T-850. Probably much the same way I do at the naked old men in the locker room of my gym: both dismissively and a bit sadly because soon my flesh will soon droop, my stomach will eclipse my penis, and I’ll have to endure the judge-y looks of some taut young punk
Review: Le Chef Is a Piece of Cinematic Trash: 0/5 Stars [Eater]

Sometimes I wonder what Travis Bickle would think of Jack Byrnes or how the Terminator T-800 model would gaze upon the Terminator T-850. Probably much the same way I do at the naked old men in the locker room of my gym: both dismissively and a bit sadly because soon my flesh will soon droop, my stomach will eclipse my penis, and I’ll have to endure the judge-y looks of some taut young punk

Review: Le Chef Is a Piece of Cinematic Trash: 0/5 Stars [Eater]

After 93 years of kicking around, my grandfather, Frank Stein, died last Sunday. He died in room 470, on the fourth floor of the “progressive care” wing in a hospital in Kokomo, Indiana. I was there, or almost at least.
The Edible Eulogy: My Grandfather, Frank Sender Stein [Epicurious]

After 93 years of kicking around, my grandfather, Frank Stein, died last Sunday. He died in room 470, on the fourth floor of the “progressive care” wing in a hospital in Kokomo, Indiana. I was there, or almost at least.

The Edible Eulogy: My Grandfather, Frank Sender Stein [Epicurious]