insomnia haiku

Watching the Oscars as a civilian (or: The curious absence of hate)

Last night was my first time watching the Oscars purely as a spectator in six years. 

Years ago, I used to love watching the Oscars. I never went to Oscars parties, because people would talk over the speeches, and I wanted to catch every single minute of everything. I would order indulgent food just for me. I would revel in the show, soaking it up: the musical numbers, the jokes, the speeches. I loved watching the Oscars even when "Titanic" beat "L.A. Confidential."

Then I got a job at a movies site, and watching the Oscars that way went out the window. After a couple of years of making minor news updates, we started doing a full-court press on Oscars coverage -- news, features, photo galleries, video -- and I was put in charge. Therefore I spent every Oscars weekend stressed about the thousand things I had to take care of and the million things that could and did go wrong. Then I spent the show with one eye and ear on the ceremony while I was working, barking out instructions, putting together galleries, generating ideas, editing copy, troubleshooting disasters. We'd pay attention to the big things so that we could capture them for our readers, but we missed a lot of the little details, and we didn't have a DVR to rewind and catch them.

We did have fun, though. We always ordered good food (covering the Oscars marked the first and second time I ever sampled the heavenliness that is Dinosaur Bar-B-Que) and after a few years started adding alcohol to the mix. It was entertaining to watch the show while eating and drinking (and working) with your colleagues who knew what they were talking about, and with whom you were entered in a viciously competitive Oscars pool with results monitored by your intern on a moment-by-moment basis. 

This year, since I no longer have that position, I was finally going to get to watch the Oscars without having to work. Free! I was free at last! ("Free" in this context is not entirely a good thing, since I'm "free" of a job, but let's just go with it.) I was disappointed that this monumental work-free Oscars was going to be so boring, though. I didn't care about any of the nominees (my favorite movies last year were "Warrior" and "Bridesmaids"), and though I was oddly looking forward to Billy Crystal at host, I can't say I was excited about it.

Here's the interesting thing I noticed, though. All those years I was working the Oscars, we would sit in the room and the snark would fly freely. We hated everything. I can't even remember the last ceremony any of us thought was good. (I vaguely remember thinking Ricky Gervais was funny at his first Golden Globes, but I can't remember a single thing he did or said.) All of us thought Hugh Jackman was awful, and then were surprised the next morning to hear that most of America liked him.

Last night, as I was watching, I checked in on Twitter to see what people were saying. Most of the entertainment editors and writers I follow hated Billy Crystal's performance, loudly and consistently declaiming how unfunny he was, how old and unbearable the humor, how terrible a show it was.

I didn't necessarily disagree with any of that -- Crystal's schtick was old, and corny, and stale -- but curiously enough, as a viewer, I found that I didn't mind so much. And I realized that when I had to cover the awards for work, I approached the Oscars with a cranky, already critical eye, bemoaning how long and tedious the ceremony was getting because the longer it went, the later I'd be getting home that night; and the more boring it was, the less there'd be to write about. Though at the same time, it's far easier, and more fun, for a writer to bash something than to heap it with praise (particularly if it's faint praise).

Watching the ceremony last night as a member of Joe Q. Public, I forgave Billy Crystal a lot even as I was unmoved by him. Last year, I would have spent the entire three hours complaining about how this was the worst Oscars ceremony ever, and how the jokes were so bad and the filler so boring. This year, I thought, how mean everyone on Twitter is being! Give the guy a break -- hosting the Oscars is hard. (Just ask James Franco and Anne Hathaway. Or Rob Lowe and Snow White.) I came to the show willingly, and therefore I was rooting for it to succeed.

And in the end, I realized, does having a great host even matter? Sure, we remember Billy Crystal getting wheeled out as Hannibal Lecter or joking about Jack Palance's one-armed pushups, but that's not the reason we watch the Oscars. It's a competition: We want to see who wins. We want to root for the films we like. We want to be there when those impromptu water-cooler moments happen, like Christopher Plummer gives a charming speech, or Dean Pelton from "Community" sticks his leg out like Angelina Jolie. The rest of it, the host part? All the banter and filler? Eh, who cares? If it's funny, great; but if it's not -- if, at worst, it's inoffensive, like it was last night -- we'll sit through it just to be shocked that Meryl Streep beat Viola Davis for Best Actress, and be glad anyway because her speech was so adorable.

Sure enough, this morning there were plenty of critiques from movie critics and editors talking about how tired and unfunny Billy Crystal was and how boring the ceremony had been, and sure enough, in response there were comments from readers exclaiming that critics don't know anything, because Billy Crystal had been great.

I won't disagree that the ceremony could use some livening up, but then again, so could the movies. (Last year was a pretty off year in film.) And goodness knows Billy Crystal was just a stopgap here -- the Oscars do need someone with fresher material and a more modern take on things. But then again, it's the movies that need to be fresher and more modern, as do the Academy members that vote on them. I really am disturbed by the recent Los Angeles Times report finding that Academy members were 77 percent male and 94% white.

When it comes to the host, though, there's a limit, because the Academy doesn't want edgy, and neither do most viewers. Chris Rock was hilarious last night, but remember, he hosted the Oscars once, and he was never asked back. Last night people on Twitter were saying things like, "Let's get Robert Downey Jr. as host," or "Let's ask Will Ferrell and Zach Galifianakis to host" -- anything but Crystal. You think any of those actors would work as Oscars host? Please. No. You need someone a little funny, a little dull, a little safe. Because that's what America likes, and that's what Hollywood has become, and I'm not necessarily saying that as a criticism. I love Jon Stewart, but as a host he wasn't everyone's cup of tea, least of all an audience ranging from a theater full of self-important Hollywood types to millions of viewers whose favorite kind of movie is one that stars Kevin James.

Anyway. All I'm saying is while I'll always have somewhat elitist taste, I'm finally starting to get that whole "critics don't know what they're talking about" thing. Force someone to do or watch anything mediocre, and they may get stratospherically cranky about it. Stay at home with your lemon-rosemary chicken and a bottle of wine, with no pressure to do anything at all but watch the parade of stars in front of you, and maybe, just maybe, you'll give what's going on in front of you a little break.

For the record, I was fine with "The Artist" winning, but I sure hope something excites me more next year. My money's on "The Great Gatsby" or "The Hobbit."

The Roast Chicken Project: Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken

After making Thomas Keller's Simple Roast Chicken, Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken and Mark Bittman's Simplest Roast Chicken, it was time for Lydia to tackle a roast chicken that's not simple, but certainly perfect. I'm talking about the creme de la creme of roast chickens, Judy Rodgers' Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken.

Nearly everyone I know who loves to cook has made the Zuni Cafe Roast Chicken, which, full disclosure, comes from the cookbook published by W. W. Norton, my former employer. I've given that cookbook to every member of my family. My mother now cooks almost all her meats "a la Judy Rodgers," meaning she salts it at least a day, if not more, before cooking. Both she and my younger brother have cooked Thanksgiving turkey this way, and my brother used to make the Zuni chicken once a week.

The Judy Rodgers method of cooking a roast chicken is a bit more involved than the "simple" recipes we've covered before. This roast chicken is predicated on a few basic tenets: 1) use a small bird, 2) dry the bird thoroughly, 3) pre-salt, to improve flavor and lock in moisture, and 4) cook at high heat (475 degrees). You pre-heat your skillet -- see, this is where Lydia's purchase of a cast-iron skillet for the last recipe comes in handy -- over the stove, place the chicken in it, then put it in the oven for 30 minutes. Flip the bird over (and because the chicken has been patted so dry, it won't stick to the skillet -- this amazes me every time it happens), roast for another 10-20 minutes, flip again, roast for another 10. Done.

Meanwhile, you're making a bread salad of crispy bread pieces and greens, dressed with a vinaigrette and topped with pine nuts and currants. The chicken's great without the bread salad, but it makes the dish different and interesting, so I told Lydia she had to make it. Confession: I got so excited about Lydia making the Zuni Cafe chicken, I made it myself a few days before she did. I have a tiny kitchen, and since I moved in I haven't much used the broiler, which is one of those under-the-stove drawer deals. After a minute, the bread caught on fire. I'm talking flames shooting skyward, the bread completely black. I scraped as much of the black parts off as I could, but my bread salad did not turn out as delicious as I've made it before. Sadness. (Chicken was lovely, though.)

Meanwhile, Lydia had already started on her chicken, pre-salting it on a Friday night and duly sending me pictures. But then life came up, and she wasn't able to make the chicken until the following Tuesday. Since the recipe calls for salting the bird one to three days in advance, and she would be leaving the chicken salted and waiting in her refrigerator for four days, I'll admit I got a little worried that the bird would last that long. But, my mom, Knower of All Things, assured me it would probably be fine; and though Lydia wasn't able to check the sell-by date because she'd already thrown away the packaging, I figured grocery stores don't really sell chickens right up to the last day, such that you'll have to cook it immediately or you'll die. Right? Well, we would just have to see.

Here's an edited-down version of the recipe, though I recommend getting your hands on the cookbook and reading the recipe in its entirety, as it's marvelously thoughtful and instructive. And away we go!

In which I am forced to pretend I like talking to people

In lieu of securing a full-time job, I've been trying to expand my experience and contacts by doing more freelance writing. I've never considered myself a "journalist" or even a "writer," but today, in service of an assignment, I spent three hours running around Manhattan investigating budget hotels.

The experience was wholly strange, and probably good for me in some ways. Despite what some people may think, I'm not a naturally outgoing person. I'm shy. I'm an introvert. This is something you never kick. If I seem outgoing, it's because I'm acting a part, donning a mask, of a person who enjoys talking to people. In reality, I'd rather be home on my couch, watching TV and interacting with not one human soul.

But writing this piece involved getting out there and talking to people, getting information out of them. Since I would feel uncomfortable writing up these hotels without visiting them first, I covered some serious ground today.

Money-saving transportation tip #1: Take the subway to your first destination, then the bus to the next place. Free transfer!

Money-saving transporation tip #2: Get in line at the turnstile behind two cops and their bomb-sniffing dog. They were so impatient at having to wait behind a Metrocard-incompetent woman while the train pulled into the station, they waved six of us on through the emergency exit. The look on that cop's face said, "I'm doing you guys a big favor, so take advantage, before I change your mind and arrest you all for jumping the turnstile." (Kidding. "Nice" and "impatient" are synonymous, no?)

At each hotel I visit, I take a deep breath, pretend I know what I'm doing and that this is a normal thing for me, and say, "I'm writing an article on hotel value in New York, and I hope to include your hotel. Do you have rooms for under $200 after tax, and if so, may I see one?" I figure that's the easiest way to go about it. What's the point in hiding my purpose, after all? I know that restaurant critics do that in order to avoid special service, but a room is a room is a room -- if it smells like feet, they won't be able to hide that from me. And it seems weird to pretend like I'm a potential guest. What would I do, act like I want to book a room, and then change my mind after seeing it?

Most of the front-desk people I've talked to have been really nice and taken my request in stride. I met one manager of an inn today who, while clearly overworked and initially abrupt because I hadn't made an appointment, gave me a lot of good information and made me like the place even more. (It has an artists' rehearsal room, with a piano! Come on.)

But in a couple of instances, my "I'm writing an article" spiel saddled me with me a full-on sales treatement. I guess it comes with the territory, but this wasn't something I'd expected or wanted. At one newly opened boutique hotel, I was introduced to a young, besuited sales person who shrugged off my questions about room rates (I believe he actually smirked when I asked about rooms under $200), and talked up the hotel's design and room size but refrained from giving me any information about how much stuff cost. At another, the woman at the front desk called the manager, then asked me for my "press pass" -- and, when I said I didn't have one, since I was writing this article as a freelancer (albeit for a legitimate publication), told me I'd have to make an appointment next week, and declined to show me a room.

I was a little baffled at all this. Sure, writers and editors who cover movies and TV have to deal with publicists; but that's usually because they're being given sneak previews or special access to celebrities. This hotel didn't want to show me a room... at all? Isn't that something they would normally grant a regular person who was curious about the hotel? So, because I'm being up front that I'm considering writing about the hotel, I get treated not better than a customer, but worse?

I would hate to have my treatment as a "journalist" influence which places I decide to cover, but in a way, it does. For one thing, customer service -- even toward a non-customer -- is an important part of the travel industry, and I have to take that into account. To be charitable, maybe they want to give me special treatment to influence my coverage, but in doing so, they're putting me off. All I wanted to do was see a room. To be uncharitable, maybe they don't trust my motives, seeing as how I'm a member of the press; but that strikes me as odd, since the best I can do is write about them, and the worst I can do is leave them out of the article because I was treated rudely or, you know, never got to see a room. (It just occurred to me that perhaps they think I would give them a bad writeup if left to my own devices and not given an official PR talk. Please. The only way that would work is if the official PR talk included payola, a bottle of champagne and a free room. Kiiidding.)

That said, I'm starting to think that next time, I'll try lying. "Hi, I'm thinking of booking a room for my, uh, aunt, but it has to be under $200. Could I see one?" Maybe I'll go full Ruth Reichl and don a wig and sunglasses. If they question me, I'll tell them the truth, because I'm a terrible liar. 

Running from place to place and asking strangers to talk to me, over and over again, is not my strong suit. At the end of the day, I was exhausted. But I'm trying to regard this period of my life as an opportunity to reinvent myself, to look around and see what I can introduce into my life that's new and maybe even difficult. To that end, I was at least partly successful. Maybe I'm not a real journalist or even a writer, but with my pad of paper and pen and questions, for brief moments today, I almost felt like one.

My culinary bucket list

Yesterday, I finally persuaded someone to go to Momofuku Ssam and have the duck lunch with me. It's not that people I know don't want to eat the duck lunch; it's just not the easiest thing in the world for most people to leave their offices and go have lunch in the East Village for an hour or more.

Momofuku Ssam is one of my favorite restaurants in New York, if not my actual favorite. Maybe I like the whole David Chang aesthetic, or maybe I'm just so powerfully under the sway of those damn pork buns, which cause me to go into paroxysms of ecstasy every time I bite into one. I've had them several times, and still -- every time. (I should note, I've had two pork belly bun-type concoctions that at least come close to Momofuku Ssam's, and they were at Animal in Los Angeles and Family Recipe in New York.)

Still, I'd never had the duck lunch, which was instituted only last year; and I'd wanted to go ever since I'd first read this glowing review. Yesterday, with a friend newly in town and between jobs, I was able to go. And my word, did it live up to the hype. Here, with apologies for the bad lighting, is what it looked like:

We didn't order the duck bun, though I'd like to in the future. But perhaps the best part was after we'd ordered, when the waitress came over to our table with a plate of the steamed pork buns in her hand. She told us that the kitchen had fired an extra by mistake, so she was giving it to us. Hang on. One of my favorite foods in the whole world, and she was just... giving it to us, for free, even though we hadn't asked for it but secretly wanted it all along. Is this what it's like to be a millionaire? Or in heaven?

I would provide a humorous example about angels bringing me things unbidden in heaven, but to be honest, I can't think of many things I'd want more than a Momofuku Ssam pork bun I didn't have to pay for. (Sorry for the rhyme.)

As for the duck itself, it was fantastic -- bursting with flavor, lusciously fatty, skin that was shatteringly crisp. I said to my friend, "I could eat this forever." And I might have, except of course we had to save room for Momofuku Milk Bar across the street (for once, I forwent the crack pie for the candy bar pie).

So that's another dish that's long been on my bucket list, that I can finally cross off. It got me thinking about other dishes on my culinary bucket list. I've done pretty well at eating most of the legendary dishes whose reputations loom large on the epicurean landscape. But there are a few still left, and no doubt, as each year passes, there will be even more.

Here's my culinary bucket list -- based on dishes, not just restaurants (with two exceptions) -- in vague order of how much I'm salivating to eat the dish. I'm sure I'm forgetting some. What's on yours?

Mutton Chop at Keens Steakhouse (New York)
I'm such a Peter Luger fanatic that I confess Keens wasn't even on my radar until it was re-reviewed by the Times in 2005. There hasn't been a suitable occasion for me to go since then, but I've been wanting to go, and the mutton chop is what you're supposed to get. I mean, just look at that thing. Last week someone in my Facebook feed posted a picture of it just before he devoured it, and I felt a white-hot jealousy akin to how I feel whenever I realize Ryan Gosling can never be mine.

Burger at Peter Luger (New York)
Yes, I have been to Peter Luger several times. The burger is supposed to be quite good, even extraordinary; but I can't ever bring myself not to order the steak. That'd be like traveling all the way to the Grand Canyon and then not actually looking at it because you got distracted by a nice tree. I'm sure it was a very nice tree. But it was no Grand Canyon.

Black Label Burger at Minetta Tavern (New York)
It's tough to get a table at Minetta Tavern, but I've somehow managed it three times. Twice, I couldn't resist ordering the famed Côte de Boeuf with bone marrow. Once, I got incredible crab cakes and shared the regular burger. Maybe it's the $26 price tag, or maybe it's the fact that if you're lucky enough to get a table, you feel you should order something more "special" than a burger that's so expensive. Still, next time, I'm getting it.

Burger at DB Bistro Moderne (New York)
Are you sensing a theme here? I've been to DB Bistro Moderne twice, and neither time did I pay for my meal. Why did I not take the opportunity to order the famed burger of sirloin, braised short ribs, foie gras and black truffle? Was it guilt that I'd be sticking my hosts with a bill for a $32 burger? I don't know. But I've been kicking myself ever since.

Pastrami at Langer's (Los Angeles)
I adore the pastrami at Katz's. I will defend it vehemently against all other New York pastramis. But I've heard that the pastrami at Langer's is even better -- mostly because of the bread -- and I don't doubt it could be true, but this is just something I have to find out for myself.

Pizza at Di Fara (New York)
Apparently the pizza at Di Fara is the best pizza in New York. I only know this because the people on the boards at Chowhound say so. Be that as it may, I know next to nothing about Di Fara except it's in Brooklyn somewhere, and it's not a part of Brooklyn near me, and the lines are long, and ... well, that's all I know. Someday I will get there. If I can ever find out where it is. (OK, I just looked it up. It's in Midwood, off the Q train. I am an intrepid eater, but I can tell you right now that I'm probably not taking the Q train just to eat pizza.)

Fried Chicken Dinner at Momofuku Noodle Bar (New York)
This is one of those group things you can't just decide to do; you have to get a minimum number of people together to do it. I love fried chicken, and this is supposed to be excellent fried chicken, and I craaaave it but whenever I mention this to people, they say, "Oh yeah, I've always wanted to do that!" and it never comes up again. Cowards.

Bo Ssäm at Momofuku Ssäm Bar (New York)
Momofuku Ssäm popularized the large-group dining experience in New York with their Bo Ssäm, which is a slow-cooked pork shoulder with Korean fixins; and though I've already had a whole-pig dinner (at Back Forty, for my birthday), I'm still looking forward to the day I finally get to experience the Bo Ssäm, because it sounds so fun and like such a spectacle. Runner-up: the whole pig at the Breslin.

Cheesesteak in Philadelphia
I have never been to Philadelphia. (I KNOW.) Therefore, I have never had a real Philly Cheesesteak. I would name Pat's or Geno's as my purveyor of choice, but I know some consider them touristy now, so I'd have to do some research before picking a spot. One of these days I'm going to hop on a train to Philadelphia by myself, have a cheesesteak, go to the museum, and head home.

Tempura Bacon at The Red Cat (New York)
This is probably the easiest item on my bucket list. I've just never been to Red Cat for some reason, and why wouldn't I want to eat tempura-fried bacon? C'mon.

Foie Gras Brulee at Jean Georges (New York)
As a rule, I don't eat foie gras, for ethical reasons. But I would make an exception for this, because it falls under the Allowable Exclusions Act: "I'm on vacation," "Someone else ordered it," "The host served it to me and it'd be rude not to eat it," and "It's famous."

Po-Boy at Mother's (New Orleans)
There's no good reason I've never been to Mother's -- the line, maybe? But I've only been to New Orleans twice as an adult, so obviously there were a ton of other places we had to go. It's possible the po-boys here aren't even that good anymore, but it's just one of those things I want to try. Also: the fried chicken at Dookie Chase, since I went to Willie Mae's last time.

Ricotta Pancakes at Locanda Verde (New York)
I love Locanda Verde, but I've only been there for dinner. It's said they have a great brunch, and many speak highly of the ricotta pancakes. That's... um, all I have to say about that, since I'm not normally a huge pancakes fan.

Anything at French Laundry (Yountville, CA) or Per Se (New York)
Sometimes I despair that I will ever eat at French Laundry or Per Se. I've wanted to eat at French Laundry for, what, 15 years now? More? But it's not so convenient for me these days, and no matter how I look at it, I simply cannot justify spending $300 or $400 or whatever it is on dinner at Per Se. This is just going to have to go on my "if I ever win the lottery" list or my "if I'm dying and decide to blow all my money on decadent food" list. Which is sort of what a bucket list is anyway, right?