Letter to the Editor

Pardon me, regular readers, while I go public for a sec.

 

Khao San Road, a restaurant in Toronto that I consider a friend was recently reviewed by one of the national Canadian papers.  This reviewer visited on the seventh day of business at this particular restaurant, and wrote this review on the basis of one (and only one) visit.  For those of you not familiar with the general ethical code for those who have an inordinate amount of power to impact a business such as a restaurant, the general idea is this:

1.  Do not review a restaurant until it has been open at least a month.

2.  Visit multiple times before posting a review, so that you can:

3.  Sample most, if not all, of the menu items.

4.  Pay your own way.

 

This particular reviewer did…um…one of those things.  I think.  But let’s be honest, she is KNOWN for doing this sort of thing – she would rather write a review with no credibility than be the…<gasp>…SECOND person to review a new place!  So I will not take too much issue with this particular bad habit of hers…everybody knows she does it, and most people whose opinions matter put little stock in her reviews for that very reason.  But her review offended me on a completely different level, one that has nothing to do with my desire to see this restaurant succeed, and thus I wrote my very first…Letter to the Editor.  Since there is no guarantee this letter will be published by the paper in question, I am posting it here.  I even started using Twitter in order to make sure it gets seen by a few people, and you KNOW how much I hate the Twitter!!!  So without further ado…

 

In a world where print journalists have to battle for face time with online bloggers and message board riff-raff, print reviewers are constantly fighting to prove their relevance and status as the true tastemakers.  So why, exactly, is Gina Mallet going to such great lengths to set this battle back?  In her review of Khao San Road, she has committed two cardinal sins of restaurant-reviewing: 1) she reviewed a restaurant that had been open only a few days and 2) she only visited once before publishing said review.  These alone would be unforgivable - or at least wildly damaging to her credibility as a reviewer in most circles (although Ms. Mallet’s track record would indicate that she cares more about beating bloggers to the punch than about her own credibility) - but what truly disturbs me about this review is the racial comments made, aside from the food.  

“Our server, who wears a black teeshirt with a glittering skull and crossbones, laughingly owns up to being Chinese.  The server at the bar is Filipina, but the kitchen is all Thai.”

In a city as multicultural as Toronto, what does it matter if your Thai food is brought to you by a waitress of Chinese descent, or your tea is brought to you by a Filipina?  Her implied criticism of this establishment for having a multicultural staff is astounding.  Does the waitstaff have to be Thai in order for the food coming out of the kitchen to be authentic?  When one of the world’s most respected students of Thai cuisine is a white man from Australia, why do I need a Thai person carrying my noodles to believe that they are made correctly?  Does the authenticity somehow evaporate off of them when handled by a person born in Canada?  If this is the case, I guess I have never had authentic takeout of any ethnicity other than my own.  Does she inquire as to the ethnic heritage of her servers in an Italian restaurant as well?  David Lee never seems to come under fire for making Continental food, so in this day and age, I have a hard time understanding why the ethnicity of a chef, let alone of a server, bears any relevance when judging the food.  She notes that the kitchen staff is, indeed, all Thai, but proceeds to blame errors in her order on a language barrier:

“It’s awfully good, but we’re sure we ordered it with shrimp — and we don’t much care for the beef. Uh-oh. Seems the server doesn’t speak Thai and the kitchen doesn’t speak Chinese. We wonder whether we shouldn’t give the server a refresher in Morse Code and tap out SOS.”

This comment is condescending, rude, ignorant…and flat-out racist.  The waitress in question, while being of Chinese descent, is a native English-speaker, with absolutely no trace of an accent, let alone a problem understanding other English-speakers.  The entire kitchen staff also speaks English.  Any brand-new restaurant makes errors in order processing in its first week - miscommunication happens with a new staff trying to find its rhythm - why should ethnicity be brought into the discussion when it has absolutely nothing to do with the topic at hand?

I have never thought highly of Gina Mallet’s writing before, as she has a long documented history of racially-loaded comments...dripping with sarcasm, yet having nothing whatsoever to do with the quality of the restaurants she reviews.  To wit, from a 2007 review:

“They didn't speak much English; we spoke no Chinese. To them, we undoubtedly all looked alike. We joked about being hungry again in an hour, a quip that has since been amended by the avalanche of cheap Chinese products. Now it's "I hardly finished eating before my made-in-China sweater started to unravel."”

Offensive racial stereotypes such as these have no place in a national paper.  As someone who values responsible print journalism, I am starting to find the bloggers and riff-raff much more credible than Ms. Mallet’s tabloid-style sensationalism.

Laid back.

It seems all I do anymore is rant, so I figured I’d just tell y’all about my day this time instead.

A few years ago, my parents decided to institute “Fishy Fridays” in their household.  It began before they retired, but after my dad had taken over “weekend cooking” duties, something that happened well after my brother and I left home.  I’m sure it was partly motivated by years of my mother’s belief that the Catholic abstinence from meat on Fridays during Lent meant that we are supposed to suffer…I think Dad took the reigns on Fridays in general mostly thanks to his Protestantism during Lent. (For those who are curious, I lie somewhere in between – I do abstain from meat during Lent, but often feel like I’m going to hell for enjoying it too much.  Not a problem since the move, since there is not one place in my town that sells sushi.)

In my household, I think I have inadvertently developed a similar tradition…namely, “Surf-and-Turf Saturdays.”  Exhibit A (from a few weeks ago):

Surf…                  and Turf…

And this week I revisited the theme.  Except “surf” was grilled mojo shrimp with a Napa cabbage slaw, but the “turf” was still roasted bone marrow.  Mmmm…meat butter.  I can get used to this.  I’m not sure “turf” is ever going to branch out – the parsley salad really makes for an amazing dish, and marrow bones are one of the few ingredients I can always be guaranteed of getting here that is truly amazingly delicious.  Even if my one reliable source sells them in a bag labeled “dog bones.”

There is something so deliciously primal about scooping out all of the good stuff inside a bone that is about 5 inches long. <drool>

If I’m being completely honest, I only made the shrimp to avoid making an entire dinner out of meat butter.  (The speed with which the drippings from inside a bone solidify is somewhat terrifying, but I’m told it’s Good Fat.)  Well, that, and the fact that my grill emerged from the snowbank on my deck earlier this week and I’m trying to get as much use out of it as I can before it disappears again tomorrow.  The only sure sign of warmer weather I can cling to is the cocktail of the evening…a slightly more sophisticated version of gin & juice or a greyhound. 

Therefore, I shall call it a Snoop Dogg:

1.5 oz freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice over ice

1.5 oz gin (or vodka if you’re like that)

splash of grapefruit bitters

top off with club soda

Simple.  Refreshing.  Delicious.  I can see myself drinking a LOT of these come summertime.  In fact, I can see myself doing ALL of this come summertime.  Surf and turf on my deck is mighty appealing…

Hmm…can you grill marrow bones?

Pardon My Pretentious Ass.

Since I don’t teach on Fridays, Thursdays are my Friday nights.  Before you commence slapping me for being obnoxious, I assure you, I put in my 40-50 hours/week.  I simply relish being able to put in as many of them as possible from my apartment, and Friday is the one day I have the luxury of doing that all day.  Although, more often than not, Friday is the ONE day of the week I do NOT work – I’ll admit that it’s nice being able to take care of all of my personal errands on a weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday when the grocery store is mobbed, I’m happy as a clam staying home with my lecture notes and lab reports.

Anyway, I digress.  Tonight, I felt like making myself a Nice Dinner, so I stopped at the one place in my small town that sells Nice Ingredients.  This guy has a complete monopoly in town on any kind of premium protein, and while his intentions are good, I have already figured out that he doesn’t always have the knowledge to back it up.  The man carries good meat, makes EXCELLENT sausage, and always stocks good beer, but there’s a reason I rarely buy wine there.  He advertises on Facebook, and while I perk up to see what fresh fish he has on Fridays, and what new beer he is carrying, I inevitably end up rolling my eyes at his wine specials.  He seems to fall for the siren song of mediocre, well-marketed, slick-labeled mass-market wines.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that in this particular market, but personally, I’m just not going to get hard for a wine from “Cupcake Vineyard” or “Menage a Trois.”  Don’t even get me STARTED on “Mommy’s Time-Out.”  Most of the wines in his shop that I would drink can be purchased at Meijer at better prices, and thus…I do.

But this evening, I was doing my shopping, and he offered up that he had just made some fresh Italian sausage (and andouille…and brats…I DO love this man’s brats…) so I got some.  And decided, what the hell, I’ll pick up a bottle of wine for my Friday night dinner of sausage and peppers.

Oh, have I mentioned that I have already picked out a couple of cheeses (curds and string cheese…are you getting the general idea yet?) and two kinds of sausage?  Okay.

Him: “Do you need any help with the wine?”

Me: “Nah, I think I’m okay.”

<short interval of undisturbed contemplation>

Him: <popping around the corner> “What do you like?”

This man is DYING to help me.  This is part of the reason I love him – the drive to please is strong with this one.  I don’t have the heart to let him know that he cannot possibly read my tastes better than I can – he just does not have the skillz.

Me: “I like a lot of things.  Just trying to figure out what I want with my dinner.”

At this point, he leaves me alone.  I think he gets it.

I pick out a cheap, but not Cheap, Italian red to go with my dinner.  Also grab a 4-pack of Good Beer to have around, and head to the register.

He cards me, rather demonstratively, and proceeds to explain that his daughter earned him a rather hefty fine earlier in the day by not carding a decoy sent by the authorities.  Also is a bit too forthcoming in the details, explaining that he needs to make $1500 in alcohol sales in order to recoup the costs of the fine…I’m guessing that means he was fined about $500.  Okay, maybe $1000.  He only needs about 49 more of me to come through to make that up.  Considering what he charges for his meat, I think he’ll recover.

So I come home and have a little pre-dinner nosh of some curds (to find out if they were squeaky…they were not) and string cheese and a Founder’s Backwoods Bastard (caramelicious!!!).

A couple of hours later, I work up enough appetite to make my dinner, and open my wine.  This process starts in rather mundane fashion…pulltab to open the foil on top…

…but under the foil is what appears to be…a screwcap? 

I’m not used to screwcaps with foil, but whatever, I proceed with the unscrewing…

…only to find glass underneath.

Not a glass neck.  There is a glass top as well.  Clear glass, while the bottle is green.

What the fuck?

My wine bottle has a glass stopper in it.

Are we seriously doing this now???

I have had bottles of wine that were clearly corked.  It is unfortunate, and unnecessary.  I have absolutely no qualms or snobbery about screwtops on my wine…I’m actually a fan, as long as the wine contained by them is tasty.  One of my favorite winemakers is actually doing studies on AGING wine with screwtops…I’m not sure he has a leg to stand on, but I admire the science.

This…is not science. 

This…is Marketing Genius at work.

Seriously, Marketing Geniuses (please note the sarcasm, dear Reader…): I would MUCH rather have a regular old screwtop on my $11 bottle of wine than try to pry an awkwardly tiny glass stopper out of the bottle.  This is the single most bizarrely awkward bottle opening I have ever personally witnessed.  And I have SEEN people sabre bottles of bubbly.  Badly.

In my perplexed state, I updated my Facebook status to say, “<Wahooty> is puzzled by her wine.  Are glass stoppers what we’re doing now to prevent corking?  I’d rather have a screwtop.”

One of my more worldly friends “like”d that almost immediately.

One of my childhood friends (who, just for the record, still lives in our hometown and is some sort of equipment mechanic now – I did not grow up in one of THOSE DC suburbs…) commented, “need to let your wine breath it will bring out the taste”

<THWACK>

That would be the sound of a forehead slap at the very moment my head hits the keyboard. 

Certain groups of people…the lovely locals in the small town in which I live or the people I grew up with… will never cease to make me feel like a completely pretentious ass.  Because they mean so well, and have no idea how completely and utterly ignorant they are about…oh…absolutely everything I enjoy.  As an educator, I think I can say with absolute confidence that the biggest problem with stupid people…is that they don’t know they’re stupid.

Seriously, if you ever feel stupid…you aren’t.  Questioning your own intelligence is, in my opinion, a sign of having some.  I feel stupid on a regular basis – it’s what drives me to seek out information and learn things, and thus grow as both an intellectual and a human being.  There are those who offer recommendations based on their knowledge of what I know, and what I don’t…and then there are those who just think they know shit when they’re actually clueless.  And these are the people who, if I tell them what I’m really thinking, would label me Pretentious, and possibly, depending on my tone, an Asshole.  Because they simply don’t know that you’re not being pretentious if you actually KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT.  They can not fathom that you know so much more than they do about the topic at hand.  I had a friend in high school who hung out with the nerds…not because he was all that smart, but because he was in most of our classes and we were the ones that were nice to him.  But somewhere along the way, he allowed this to convince him that he WAS smart, and he regularly tries to engage in intellectual banter with me on my Facebook feed. 

Depending on who you ask, it was Mark Twain or Oscar Wilde or Winston Churchill who said, “I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed man.”

I am not so noble.  In fact, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally just smack his ass down to shut him up.

And this, dear friends, is why I am an asshole.  Sometimes, I just can’t help myself. 

But I will always…ALWAYS be nice to the sausage man. 

You can’t be pretentious if you know what you’re talking about, but you also can’t be an ass to a man with good meat.

I teach, therefore I drink.

Did you ever wonder when you were in college…what things you might have done that pissed your professors right the fuck off?

 

Case Study #1:

I receive an e-mail from a student informing me that she has plans to leave for spring break on Thursday of the preceding week.  I have a test scheduled for that day, and she asks about rescheduling.

I ask WHY she is leaving early for spring break.  Students trying to leave a day early for any break is annoying, but two days is really stretching the limits of my patience.

“Well, my family already bought the tickets, and it was cheaper to leave on a Thursday…I can bring in proof that they were purchased back in September…”

I’m sorry, but what exactly the fuck is wrong with your parents that they decided, MONTHS before you even knew your class schedule, let alone exam dates, that “oh, it’s okay, we can pull her out of school a couple of days early to save a few hundred dollars.”  Sure, vacations are expensive.  But so is…oh…A COLLEGE EDUCATION.  How much are they spending on tuition this semester vs. the cost of this trip?  And which of those two things is more important??? 

I am not a complete asshole – I did allow her to schedule the test for a day early.  But I almost made her cry first.  Because SERIOUSLY????

 

Case Study #2:

We had our first test about a week and a half ago.  Now, I seem to be physically incapable of writing easy tests.  I want to know what my students know, and I get a lot more usable information out of a hard test.  It spreads them out, and having a low average is more than made up for by the massive grade-padding they receive from their labs and homework assignments.  If all of the grades are clumped together, you can’t tell who really understands the material and who is just really good at memorizing your lecture examples/homework problems.  And if you know me even a little bit, you know that I care much more about the former.  If I didn’t, I’d be a lazy-ass teacher.

And the last two weeks, I have had the same two students in my office, bitching about how hard the test was. 

Last week, I felt I talked them down.  But this week, they came to my office hour to ask some questions about their lab, and they were still clearly pissed off.  They asked what the average was…I told them.  It just so happens that percentage-wise, the average is a failing grade.  I have already given them an opportunity to earn back enough points that the class average is now a passing grade, and there will be another.  Have I mentioned that their grades are HEAVILY padded by lab reports and homeworks?  But they are hung up on the lowness of my test average.  They ask, “the average is failing.  If the entire class fails (at this point, I resist the urge to point out that this only indicates that HALF of the class has, in fact, failed – my students are even worse at statistics than they are at chemistry), then doesn’t that indicate that something is wrong?  Have you ever seen that before?”  I say, “yes.”  “In a 100-level class????”  I say, “yes.”

I pretty much end this conversation with a, “trust me, I know what I am doing.  You are not, in fact, all going to fail this course.  Now, do you want to actually talk to me about the lab?” 

Later, a math professor who lives in the next cubicle over told me, “I admire you for holding your ground there.  I have had tests where the class average was a failing grade.”

I asked, “in a 100-level class?”

“Math 126.  I wanted to come in and back you up, but figured that would just escalate the situation.”

SWEET, SWEET VINDICATION, YOU ARE MINE!!!

I’m a big girl.  I can admit I make mistakes.  My students catch at least one mistake every lecture when I write faster than my brain/mouth can keep up.  I would much rather be the sort of professor that can admit such things rather than the sort that blindly defends an answer that is clearly wrong.  However, THIS WAS NOT A MISTAKE.  The only mistake here is you convincing yourself you understood the material when it is PLAIN AS DAY that you did not.

 

Lately, there have been a lot of whisperings and full-on gnashing of teeth in academia due to a recently-published book.  A long-term study of college students determined that the majority of students are now graduating college, with degrees, not having made any appreciable improvements in their writing or critical thinking skills.  Students graduate saying things like, “I thought college was going to be harder than high school, but it turned out to be easier.”  In other words, you no longer have to learn anything to graduate college.  That’s FOUR YEARS, after which you are SUPPOSED to have a deeper understanding of at least ONE topic than the average person.  FOUR YEARS that are completely lacking in academic rigor.  I don’t know yet if I am part of the solution, but I for DAMN sure refuse to be a part of the problem.

 

So you wanna piss me off?  Ask me to dumb down my class for you.  Go ahead.