How to cook a jackass
by Pim under Uncategorized with 25 Comments
Monday, November 6, 2006
I don’t actually have a recipe, but I’m sure the fabled Creole cooks in New Orleans will be happy to come up with one, specifically to cook that Platonic-Ideal-of-the-specie Alan Richman.
If you still don’t know what I’m talking about, get yourself over to GQ and read how Richman rips New Orleans, um, a new one. And when you’re back here I’m sure you’ll get in line to have a go at him yourself.
Brandishing generalizations and stereotypes –the city’s occupants are no more than cooks and crooks (and leprechauns, apparently) whose idea of morning exercise regimen consists of stumbling out of bars- Richman’s column reveals little about the city but exposes a great deal more of his own ignorance.
In a piece that’s somehow supposed to be about food, Richman managed to rub salt into the all too fresh wound that Katrina inflicted on the town, calling New Orleans a city that ‘fell in love with itself" and "[a] festival of narcissism, indolence, and corruption."
Revelry? Narcissism? Indolence? Perhaps Alan Richman forgot that the magazine he wrote
for was hardly Harper’s but GQ, the current cover of which purports to
show readers "how to look like a champ in winter." This is the magazine whose idea of solitude in the wild
is a weekend spent in the exclusive boutique hotels on the Caribbean
island paradise Vieques. Not that I have a problem with luxuriating in
boutique hotels or boys who look like a champ (in any season), mind you. I’m just wondering what was that old saying about stones and people in glasshouses?
That Alan Richman disliked the food in New Orleans bothers me not at all. I’m not a fan of obsequious flattery. It’s chacun son gôut
and all that. But that he chose this unfortunate time to mercilessly
attack a city that’s simply trying to rise up from the ruins -yes, with
the help of tourism and its renown local cuisine- is ill timed and
mean-spirited, at best.
Geez, man, go pick on Vegas or something.
As for cooking a jackass, no, I don’t have a recipe for it. But I’m sure some little old ladies cree-yole cooks in New Orleans would be more than happy to teach me how.