Are You Kosher? (10 page)

Chapter 20

Gripes

One of the problems about being an immortal is that I have had to watch the demise of the human existence, not once, but twice over the centuries. The first was during the great flood. The second, we are still in the process of watching firsthand, and I have to tell you that it is infuriating.

Try to put yourselves in my shoes. You know that unless some extreme set of circumstances occurs, you are going to live forever. In like manner, one of the things that you do to pass the time is to watch and observe how every new generation treats the gift of life that has been bestowed upon it. How will the next generation improve on the mistakes of others as time passes. Then you wake up to the realization that mortal man is inherently fucked up beyond repair. I want you to really think hard about what I just said, because I believe that you will all be in agreement with me.

Granted, some things have come along that mankind can be quite proud of, like advances in medicine, global communications to a point, and the “fluffer-nutter.” But if you looked at it through a six thousand-year-old microscope, you would probably be as annoyed as I am. Man is an absolute cluster fuck. No doubt about it whatsoever. My perspective is undoubtedly different from yours, but if you listen to what I have to say, you will agree with me for the most part. Unless you’re a shmendrik.

There are so many things that have aggravated me over the years that if I went through the entire list, we could be here for a while. So I have decided to keep the conversation topical. Maybe if I ever write a sequel, we can delve deeper, but for now let’s just keep to one book at a time. For the sake of trying to preserve clarity and sanity, I am going to stick to the twentieth century. Now might be a good time to take a pish break or head to the kitchen for a tasty beverage. Unless, of course, you are sitting on a subway train or commuter bus next to some smelly fat guy who has fallen asleep and is drooling on himself. In that case, you are royally screwed, so you might as well keep on reading.

As you have probably noticed by now, I am quite passionate about food, so I am going to start off by going after the single worst thing to happen to the world of cuisine in modern history. What these people have done to food, Hitler did to Europe:
The Food Network.

What started off as a novel and even brilliant idea has drastically turned into a mockery of what the great chefs throughout history tried to do. They practiced the art of food preparation in an elegant, respectful way, while holding true to those who preceded them.
The Food Network
has failed miserably at this. I cannot even watch this dreck in good conscience anymore.

You have to appreciate the fact that I knew Julia Child and her delightful husband Paul, and I can tell you that she is doing more than cartwheels in her grave. I should have made her a vampire; then I would have an authority to back me up on this subject.

They started off with what was new and exciting in the world of cuisine, with many of the hot young chefs on their payroll. Now we are force fed a steady diet of the likes of Rachael Ray, who couldn’t cook her way out of a paper bag without a road map; Sandra Lee, who’s only assets are her breasts; and please don’t get me started on Guy Fieri. There are still some chefs on the network I moderately admire and will even TIVO, but for the most part, it is like watching a horrible train wreck. Even the media would not go so far as to hold an open competition to decide who the new anchor of a national broadcast would be. But to these shmucks, it makes perfect sense.

Don’t get me wrong. I would love to feast on Giada De Laurentiis or have a shot of tequila with Bobby Flay. Who doesn’t like Paula Deen? But most of her recipes come off the back of a can of soup.

The executives of this network should be brought up on charges of fraud. I ate the food of Carême and Escoffier. Of Julia Child and Jacques Pépin. I have even been fortunate enough to dine at the establishments of some of the new masters, such as Ripert, Keller, and Boulud. I doubt that any one of them would even consider taking a job with this disaster on celluloid without being given a guaranteed income in the seven figures.

I know that you are probably wondering if I have an axe to grind with them for some reason, but the fact of the matter is that my only true problem with them is that they have let the public down. I am too old to waste my time with such mishegas. It just really irritates me.

So keep doing what you’re doing, Food Network. There are plenty of unqualified instructors of a very noble art yet to be exploited and at least you are keeping the antacid companies in business.

While I’m on the subject of people involved in the culinary arts that irritate the hell out of me, let me address Mr. Anthony “Tony” Bourdain. You all know who he is. He is the shmuck that appears on one of those cable channels and acts like he is the second coming. Well, he got the coming part right.

Tony, or “Phony,” as Bubbe likes to call him, makes my dick itch. You know who he is. The shmuck that portrays himself as the bad boy of food. Who likes to ridicule people, but once he meets them, plants his lips on the tuchas of his targets. Just ask Rachael Ray; she’s still waiting for the hickey marks to fade from her ass. He was and always will be a mediocre chef at best and I use the word chef very loosely when it comes to him. He likes to portray himself as some kind of bad boy. I can’t stand people like this, particularly when they achieve notoriety because of it. Where do I possibly start with this asshole?

He presents himself as a New Yorker, yet he was raised in New Jersey with a silver spoon up his tuchas. He is an opportunist who claims to be a New Yorker, but for the sake of ratings, will happily do a show about his home state of New Jersey. I was obviously not born in New York, but I have lived here longer than this meshuganah. One of the things that I have learned is that if you did not spend your formative years here, you are not a New Yorker. You may have been a rebellious teen who liked to come to this city to buy your drugs, and you may live here now, but you are not a New Yorker.

A self-respecting New Yorker would never refer to a Chicago-style hot dog as the best he’s ever eaten. He wrote an obnoxious book that was full of exploits and triumphs that anyone with an IQ of more than thirty would know was pure dreck. I do not like bullshit artists, and Tony, you are a bullshit artist.

Living in the city that I now am proud to call my home for over two hundred years has taught me that those who brag about their exploits are usually lying. I am not doubting that he was a drug addict; no person in his right mind could be so brazen in the lies that he spews about his past. I am not saying that he did not work for all of these various shithole restaurants, but the fact is, he worked in shithole restaurants. Enough said.

I can say only this one last thing about Mr. Bourdain. You are not even worthy of living in New York and I will say that to your face. You are from New Jersey and anyone who knows his tuchas from a hole in the ground will know that New Jersey is the armpit of New York. Maybe one day I will open a restaurant and I will save a table for you.

I’ll put a big sign on the table that says “No Reservations,” unless you are some fake tough guy from a gated community in New Jersey. Like I said, I hate bullshit artists.

Since we are now on the topic of bullshit artists, let us focus our attention on politicians. From the early days of Pontius Pilate down to the modern day mishegas of Democrat and Republican pissing competitions, I can think of no other group that has caused me to suffer more heartburn.

The greatest country in the world is run by two ruling parties of complete and total shmendriks. I have gone on the record as saying that even though I am liberally minded, I always vote Republican. This is just because to me, it is the less foul-smelling of the same odor. When all is said and done, the two parties have the same dreck to answer for.

You mortals like to get all hot and bothered during election season, listening to the media, which is usually liberal—more on those shmucks later—and choosing the person to lead your so-called voices for a future that all of them promise, but none can deliver. It is ridiculous. You cannot possibly be an intelligent person and believe that any promise that comes out of these idiots’ mouths will ever be fulfilled. This is one of the benefits of living as long as I have. I can smell bullshit a mile away.

The perfect example of this was something that I alluded to earlier regarding our new president. You do remember the “Black Tuesday” remark, right? Here we have a man that so enthralled the national populace that people were eating out of his hand. But he lacked substance. He was running on the ineptitude of his predecessor and the fear of the nation. This is why I do not vote unless I am very passionate about the cause, and I have not felt that way since Lincoln. The way I see it, if you vote and lose, you can’t complain, but if you stay at home watching late night television, it’s not your fault so you can complain. So I choose to complain.

One side will blame the other for the problems and delays that affect the common man, while the other side will undoubtedly say that it is the first side’s fault. It goes on and on. This is not a new argument. In fact I am going to go so far as to say that it is what is on everybody’s mind. But if this sort of a thing can bother someone who has been alive as long as I have, then you have to realize that there is something to be said about that.

But while I am on the subject of politics, mainly our new commander-in-chief, when the hell did Chicago become the hallmark of what is right and popular in America? Is it because he claims to be from Chicago? I’m sorry; I thought you grew up in Hawaii. I see we have another Bourdain on our hands.

I have visited the “Second City” and I left with no doubt about why it is called that. It is a poor substitute for what should be the nation’s crown jewel: New York.

Let’s start with the cuisine. I like to talk about food— get over it. I still can’t believe that this place has become a major metropolis serving the dreck that they do. What the hell is going on with the entire concept of that pizza? That is not a pizza! It is a meat pie, plain and simple. I lived in Naples and I currently reside in the Big Apple, and what Chicago folks call pizza is an absolute joke. Please do not get me started on their idea of what a hot dog is. The entire purpose of a hot dog is that it should be able to stand alone on its merits because it tastes good. Why in the world would anyone want to cover it in a garden salad? It doesn’t even taste good; let’s not even get into what it looks like. And how can I possibly berate Chicago without mentioning the most infamous Chicagoan to ever walk the face of this earth? No, not Al Capone; I am referring to the she-devil herself. Oprah.

Much like her friend, the president, I have never seen anyone accomplish more with less talent. Occasionally when Bubbe is switching the channels in the late afternoon, she comes across her show and Yankel stares at the screen and hisses. You know what they say about animals being able to identify evil. The only person in the house who seems to like her is my mother. I guess that Mom embodies Oprah’s demographic: six thousand one hundred-year-old alcoholic, hedonistic, bloodsucking yentas.

Somehow, this woman has been given a free pass to do what she wants when she wants, much like her friend in Washington, only her title is “She Who Must Be Obeyed” instead of Mr. President. I must be a shmuck, because I thought that was Bubbe. I know I just lost about half of my female readers, but you know what? I do not care! Write your own memoirs. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I am too old to worry about offending people. I know that many of you reading this will be thinking that I am being inflammatory, but I have just begun.

Let us discuss the French. Do I really need to say any more? Aside from giving us a wonderful world of cuisine, they are the cockroaches of human society. Any large group of people who would consider Jerry Lewis a genius should be discounted from any intelligent conversation. The only thing that they have going for them right now is that their first lady did nude photos for a gentleman’s magazine. I am a subscriber; I’ve seen them. I will be feasting on her soon.

In this century alone, the world has been plunged into conflicts of a military nature because these snail-eaters have no backbone, and all they can do when the smoke clears is spit at those who bailed them out.

Everything is always someone else’s fault in the mind of the Frenchman. It is sort of like the other great cancer of the twentieth century: Rap music.

How’s that for a segue?

Rap is just an excuse for inner-city youths to express themselves in a violent and obscene manner and hold no regard to the safety of those around them. I never heard of a classical musician “busting a cap” in someone or calling on citizens to kill law officials. It is painfully obvious that the art of music making has deteriorated to the point where talent is judged by how many times a musician grabs his shmekel while talking fast to an artificially created beat. I know I’m going to get letters and maybe even death threats for this remark, but what do I care? I am an immortal, unlike Tupac.

What rappers have done to music, rednecks have done to the sports world. Now “redneck” is a term used generally in the United States, but let us examine the filth that it has spewed in the rest of the world. Namely soccer. I know that the sport has been around for far longer than the twentieth century, but I really hate it. Eleven faygelahs bouncing a ball off of their heads for almost two hours. It’s like watching flies fuck. Wars have actually started over this asinine excuse for an athletic competition. Have you mortals really not been able to evolve past this form of dreck? What’s next? International dreidel spinning?