You would think that it would be a dream job being a food critic like Mr. Bruni of the New York Times; living in a food mecca, and everybody from the best chefs to the new chefs to somebody’s grandma who was just made chef because she is just that good making you dinner every night on an expense account. But you know I bet Mr. Bruni everyonce in a while gets tired of eating lobster tails sitting in bouillabaisse and sauced up short ribs and fried goat cheese on a pile of beet chips or even shrimp after roasted tomato chased by caramelized bananas set on fire at the table.
Everybody every once in a while needs to eat just a plain old smashed potato with a lot of butter and a cold beer and a piece of cheddar or a homemade stock ice cube the size of a pint container melted down and kept simmering long enough to cook a handful of broken up spaghetti in there. Lots of parmesan and a little olive oil, maybe a crust of toasted bread thrown in the bottom. Or snacky things like dates stuffed with mascarpone and slices of coppa di parma and just a little dish of toasted pine nuts tossed with two kinds of raisins. Don’t make dinner tonight.