Cold brew coffee

Just when I thought coffee culture couldn’t get any more precious, cold brew coffee shows up to the delight of coffee snobs and the dismay of pretty much everyone else.

The hot drink equivalent of small-batch spirits, cold-brewed (or pressed) coffee is produced by steeping coffee grounds in chilled or room temperature water for 12-plus hours. 

Hipsters far and wide are queuing up for this new brew, which makes the coffee less bitter (while jacking up my own bitterness) because the coffee beans never make contact with actual hot water. This coffee concentrate can then be heated up and added to water or milk for a supposedly transcendental coffee experience.

Cold brew coffee has been popping up around town, with some bars even offering the coffee on tap or in growlers. This translates into lumbersexuals everywhere coming in their artfully distressed jeans.

I hate to throw cold water on this, but if you need a cuppa joe to get your rocks off, you might want to rethink things. A sweet cup of coffee is a wondrous thing, certainly, but it will never beat out a sweet piece of ass. Sip on that.

(photo: coldbrew.com)

#blessed

Well, duh. 

Way to state the obvious, Einstein. Of course we’re blessed. We live in a privileged society with fluoride in our tap water, computers and flat-screens in every home, organic chickens in every pot, access to health care, and Beyonce. We shop at Goodwill because it’s cool.

Adding a hashtag that telegraphs your gratitude and piety wastes 8 characters and clues in your tweeple that you are an unoriginal windbag who’s humblebragging your sweet-ass anointed life (Gwyneth) or trying to cover up the fact that you’re just happy to be here (Lindsay). Either way, it sounds insincere.

Put the #blessed to rest. Swap it out with something that conveys what you’re actually thinking. Instagramming your engagement ring? #couldabeenbigger Tweeting about the French toast your kids surprised you with? #chokingdowngluten Commenting on an unflattering throwback Thursday photo that a childhood friend posted and tagged you in? #paybackisabitch

I guarantee that you’ll get retweeted. #amen 

(photo: puttingonthenew.com)

"Curators"

When strolling the galleries of museums both grand and intimate, I am always grateful for the discerning eye and expertise of curators even if I don’t always fancy the art itself.

In college, I interned at a terrific museum in Washington, DC devoted to art by women. I went on behind-the-scenes tours of other museums ranging from the National Gallery to the Corcoran, and sat down with curators for brown bag lunches to learn about what they do. I even helped take a Frankenthaler off the wall.

Respect, y’all.

But sadly the ranks of actual curators have been breached and sullied. Just like anyone can start a blog, print up 100 Moo cards, and call themselves a professional writer, so too can some yambag create a list of cured meats for a regional magazine or a collection of sunglasses or yoga pants for Piperlime.

So you eat a lot of sausage and like to shop. Do you have a PhD in anything remotely relevant? Is there any standard that makes you a bona fide expert in anything other than being obnoxious? And there’s the trend to call employees “content curators.” Call me crazy but in my day, that was an editor. So go ahead and offer your top ten list or opinion freely and often, but don’t call yourself a curator. The only thing you’re qualified to select and collect is my ire.

(Photo: http://ny.racked.com)

Mixologists

I recently went to a new watering hole, all warm low-lighting and fancy bar menu designed by someone with interesting eyewear and a penchant for Copperplate. The drinks, with the clever names you’d expect from a hipster bar that requires a secret handshake to enter, were made out of exotic ingredients. My pal and I were parched so we just ordered up two Tanqueray & tonics.

No Tanqueray.

No problem. I can roll with a locally distilled and hand-crafted gin.

Minutes ticked by. The thirst mounted.

Finally, our server appeared with a pair of ginger-colored cocktails gleaming in their old-fashioned glasses. “Good news! We have this amazing tonic; it’s made from Peruvian tree bark.”

My face became the visual version of a needle scratching a record. Peruvian tree bark in my gin & tonic. That explained the tea-stained color.

Again, I’d like to think I’m open minded. But hell if it didn’t taste vaguely like cinnamon-laced apple. And it was as flat as Keira Knightley’s chest.

Needless to say, I sent that drink back to South America and gave my best stinkeye to the bartender. Excuse me, mixologist.

Hand-crafted bitters infused with rare herbs. Schnapps produced in a tiny Alpine hamlet only during avalanche season. Drink names that combine the mixologist’s last vacation destination with a weather phenomenon or natural disaster. No, I do not want a Cabo San Tsunami, Amsterdammit! What’s next? Vodka made from Brussels sprouts?

Mixologists are easy to spot. Their plumage comes in the form of a natty vest and they all vaguely resemble Joseph Gordon-Levitt. They have an extensive knowledge of Absinthe and the ruined men who loved her, are judgmental of anyone else’s cocktail-crafting abilities, and rejoice in taking half an hour to make a Ramos gin fizz (which, admittedly, is delicious).

While they follow spirits trends, they pride themselves on being an exhaustive repository on all things boozy. If you want the backstory on that 15-year-old Calvados, the mixologist is your man. But if you want a drink without a side of “I know better; let me make you a new and improved cocktail,” head to your closest dive bar. You can get pissed drunk instead of pissed off.

(photo: startribune.com)

Restaurants that don't put salt on the tables

Saturday, I had the most amazing meal at the newest hot spot in town. Brick walls, warm candlelight, waiters with Ira Glass eyewear and corresponding attitude, hour-long waits. You know the place.

This time, the food lived up to the hype. We ordered the tasting menu and soon, a dizzying array of appetizers hit our table, followed by homemade spaghetti. Then came two entrees, one of which was pork cheeks, a dish that will dance through my dreams. Two desserts brought up the rear and went straight to my rear.

All in all, a perfect evening.

Well, except for one tiny little thing that forced me to bust out a four-letter word.

Salt.

Much like my personality, my palate runs toward the salty side. While I usually order dishes based on how the chef wants them prepared, I also want the right to season my food to my palate's preference. I want to sprinkle bread with sea salt after I dip it in olive oil. I want to add a pinch to the Bolognese sauce, which, while full of flavor, was a little too Healthy Choice for my taste buds.

But there was no shaker or cellar in sight. Like a napkin and silverware, salt on the table should be a given. Don't make me ask for it and don't arch your judgmental foodie eyebrow at me when I do. While I may be rubbing salt in the wounded ego of Chef Fancy-Pants, it's definitely preferable to punching you where your taste receptors don't shine.

(photo: luxist.com)

Bloomsday

I once engaged in a vigorous round of literary flirtation with a fellow writer. Scratch that. He was an aspiring writer. He would send lengthy e-missives designed to make me swoon, or at least open up my, uh, Rolodex. He wanted my agent’s information.

In the words of Alicia Silverstone’s Cher in Clueless, “As if.”

What made him especially odious, however, was not his naked ambition. It was his blathering nonsensical jabberwocky. He concluded with one simple sentence that I shall never forget.

“I’m speaking, of course, of Ulysses.”

Let me paint a portrait of this artist as a young man. He, and innumerable other numnuts, gather every June 16 to read the novel Ulysses (which takes place on this day), dress as the book’s characters, embark on pub crawls, and indulge their inner McAsshole.

The bloom is off this literary rose. While I generally applaud literary events of every kind, Bloomsday acolytes, in my experience, are not a cause to re-Joyce. They are pretentious prats who smoke pipes, affect accents that don’t exist in nature, and reference films that never made it out of the film festival circuit.

I’m speaking, of course, of punching each and every one of them in their monocle. And yes I said yes I will Yes.

(photo: vicbooks.wordpress.com)

Vanity plates

Personalized license plates are NOTSOGR8 in my book. In fact, IH8EM. The vehicular equivalent of the tattoo, what sort of 6 or 8-letter phrase are you going to slap on your SUV’s ass to define yourself? Seinfeld’s ASSMAN is ASSIN9, in my humble opinion. A lot of the plates are pretentious and blowhardian in nature (0-60IN4 or WISHURME), some—clearly owned by Stifler’s peeps—are downright grody (8 ER OUT? Really, Illinois? Really?). There’s a ginormous motor home sporting “GLBL WMR” which should really say “I M PRBLM”. Some unoriginal chuckleheads are using online acronyms—if you are ROTFL, who’s driving the car? I’m not rolling on the floor, dude. I’m right behind you, willing myself not to rear-end you in hopes of denting your metal tramp stamp.

My friends in Delaware will pay upwards of five figures for one of the rare black low-numbered plates. They view it as an investment and a status symbol. This sort of boggles my mind, especially when they tell me how much the single digit plates go for (the number “6” plate went for $675,000 in 2008). What kind of vehicle deserves to host that sort of marquee plate? Is there a place for it on Air Force 1’s vertical stabilizer?

I suppose a vanity plate is a way to show off without shelling out buttloads of clams. There is one plate that I can get behind, both on and off the road. A hearse’s plate that reads “U R NEXT.” Yep, buddy, you are. Because I M GUNIN 4U.

If you were forced to get a vanity plate, what would it be?

(photo: coolpl8z.com)

New Yorker cartoons

I have never, ever subscribed to The New Yorker.

There. I said it.

Call me unsophisticated, a troglodyte, a knob, whatev. I’m okay with it. I read The Pew Yorker occasionally when hanging out with friends more refined than me. But after eyeballing an issue, I put it down and walk away. It makes me feel stupid and I’m already full-up in that department.

It’s not the articles. I can deal with a lengthy piece now and again and I’m always able to soldier through “Shouts & Murmurs” and reviews with little damage to my ego.

And it’s not the pompous Mr. Peanut dandy who represents. I get it. Dudes with monocles read The New Yorker. As they should. It’s their thing, along with spats and a penchant for crème brûlée (not to mention words using the accent aigu).

It’s the goddamn cartoons. When I'm in a dentist's office, I'd still rather reach for Highlights than The New Yorker. I can always detect what doesn't belong in a picture but fuck if I know what is clever or funny about a cartoon of a dude who, while raking leaves, holds up a maple leaf and says to his wife, "They're all pretty, but this one is my favorite"? Am I missing something? Like IQ points or my frontal lobe? I'd like to change this caption to read: "You know, Jennifer could dip this in resin or metal and make a five-pointed weapon to kill me with." That I would understand. That I could get behind.

I want to punch these cartoons in their smug, insidery face. What's black and white and red all over? A New Yorker cartoon after I've beaten it to a bloody pulp.

What New Yorker cartoon had you scratching your head?

(photo: This cartoon I get.)

Coffee snobs

I’m a coffee pussy, I'm the first to admit. But when I’m forking over good coin for my grande decaf Americano (with room, if you please), I’d really like it if the barista didn’t coat me with disdain. I once ordered a nonfat decaf latte, and the baristickupherassta snidely informed me that this particular drink is called a “why bother.” As I added my three packets of raw sugar, I thought that maybe I should have bothered to jump behind the counter and whack her upside the head with my metal thermos.

It’s not just espresso-stand employees who give me guff. I also take shit from my more cultured friends who seek out beans picked by virgins in the most remote mountain regions of Central and South America and then home roast them, pulling them out at exactly the right moment after the second crack.

Dude, you have your form of crack and I have mine. You’re addicted to caffeinated coffee that costs $20 a pound. I’m addicted to MAC Viva Glam V Lipglass. Potayto, potahto.

If you insist on giving me the java jeer, I’ll have no choice but to give in and order up a cup of black coffee. After a horrifying sip, I decide you’ll enjoy this a whole lot more than me so I’m going to throw it in your jittery Starfucks face.

Just say espressno.

(photo: bloglines.com/blog/lizfender/2007_11)

You're not in Manchester, mate

I just got an invitation from Nordstrom to experience the new MAC Cosmetics Hello Kitty collection. While Hello Kitty will undoubtedly merit its own rant at some point, I was more irked by the fact that I was invited to be “one of the first to see the looks, colours, and accessories of this exclusive limited-edition collection.” Um, colours? While I know that MAC was founded in Toronto, the last time I checked, this was the US of A and Ontario had not been joined the union as our 51st state.

What I'm trying to say is that your spelling don’t play here. Confused? Let me give you a little spelling lesson. It’s color, not colour; harbor, not harbour; analyze, not analyse; center, not centre; and theater, not theatre. Unless you are Hugh Bloody Grant, back away from the extra “u” and the “re”. If you don’t like the way Merriam-Webster and I spell, move to the UK or Canada and spend all your savings on an OED, you pretentious sot.

Get with the program(me) or I’m going to drive my fist into your Anglophile face and let your universal health care pick up the tab.

Are there any other Anglo-cized words that drive you batty?