They have the interwebs everywhere now!

I’m posting this from a lovely bed and breakfast in Aberdovey, on the Welsh coast. It’s a tiny little inlet populated by border collies and terriers, with the odd chip shop thrown in for variety.

To get here from the South, we had to drive through Sandford, in Gloucestershire — which some of you may recall as the setting for “Hot Fuzz”. Sadly, Edgar Wright actually shot the film in his home town of Wells, so we had no luck location-spotting.

When we get back to London later this week, I have every intention of scouring Crouch End for the Winchester Tavern. And when I find it, I will reward myself with a Cornetto.

Yep. I’m that guy now.

The AP headline read “Car crashes into eatery in NY movie stunt; 2 hurt.” Innocuous enough. But this was the summary:

NEW YORK – Police say a Ferrari crashed into a restaurant in New York’s Times Square during filming of a Nicolas Cage movie stunt, injuring two pedestrians.

And I knew it was the Sbarro. Just knew it. Because that Sbarro is an attractor.

Everyone who goes to Times Square ends up going into that Sbarro at some point or another. Even when you know better food can be had by walking no more than ten yards in any direction — even straight up or straight down, I’d wager — you will, some day, hit that Sbarro.

Because it’s pizza, and pizza smells amazing, and pizza always seems like a good idea even if you regret it later. And trust me, you will.

For me, it was the fall of 1994. I was in Manhattan for a press junket. I’d checked out of my hotel on 55th with a little time to spare, so I wandered down 7th to do some last-minute CD shopping at Colony. (Fifteen years later, it’s still going strong, though it’s more about memorabilia than music now.) I’d already been there the previous day, so it wasn’t a long visit, and a few minutes later I realized I had a good half-hour or so before I needed to get to LaGuardia, and I was kind of hungry.

Sbarro is just across the road from Colony. You can guess what happened next. The glowing lights, the open door, the lure of “fresh” pizza … in the moment, it doesn’t matter that you know there are better options literally everywhere. It doesn’t matter that eating Sbarro’s pizza is an insult to the multitude of Rays constantly arguing about who among them is the more famous or original. It’s just … there. Waiting. And sooner or later, it seems like a good idea to go inside.

Witnesses say the Ferrari appeared to take a hard right turn and smashed into the Sbarro restaurant at 47th Street and Seventh Avenue.

Of course he did. He was hungry.

Eventually, that Sbarro gets us all.

Sorry for the later post than usual — it’s just been a flurry of screenings, last-minute DVD couriering and filing to deadline, and all of a sudden it’s 4:30 in the afternoon and I’m just remembering I have a blog.

I blame the weather. It’s gray and oppressive here, which makes my sinus cavities into some kind of resonance chamber, apparently, and I’ve been walking around bleary for days. A good hour of rain usually clears that up, but we haven’t had much luck there.

Actually, I can’t really pray for rain today, since that might interfere (or at least slow down) tonight’s World Baseball Classic match-up between Canada and Italy, and my brother –who’s doing the play-by-play on said game — would really hate that.

Check him out if you’re able: 590 AM in the Toronto area, or online anywhere at the Fan’s site; just click on the “Listen Live” tab. The game starts at 6:30 pm EDT, though the broadcast doesn’t catch up until 7 pm. I think you’ll be able to catch it online from the start.

I won’t be able to tune in, myself. (Lousy day job, making me work nights.) But I know it’ll be worth the listen. He’s really very good at this stuff.

Sad news from North Toronto: Coleman’s Deli — my childhood go-to eatery — has closed after half a century of operation at Bathurst and Lawrence.

Kate mentioned she’d read Zane Caplansky’s post about finding the place shuttered; he’d been following up on a post over at Save the Deli that first sounded the alarm. The restaurant’s website just thanks people for their patronage and brings the curtain down with no further explanation.

Dammit.

Look, I know about entropy. I know you can never count on the things you love sticking around for the duration. And I know that economic times are harder than they’ve been in decades. But they had the best knish in the city, and my grandfather loved their tongue sandwiches, and I’m not ready for them to be gone.

It somehow seems like an extra twist of the knife for this to happen on the second anniversary of my grandfather’s death. Or maybe it’s just me being forty, and fixating on all the things that are behind me rather than ahead of me. Family. Friends. Pets. The winter will do that to you.

Ah, fuck it. I’m going to Caplansky’s tonight, and I’m going to have a sandwich and a knish, and I am going to raise a glass to the past.

And then we’ll see about the future.

I have just received what may be the greatest spam mail ever: It comes from FBI Director Robert S. Mueller III and includes the words “Puppy Scammers”. I reprint it verbatim below the jump, so that you may giggle at it until you get tired and have to lie down.

Remember, “Please if you know you cannot be able to afford the $150 for the delivery of your ATM card via FedEx then do not bother to contact Mr. Kelvin Williams as we are at the End of the year and he should be busy with some other things.”

Continue reading The Man Comes Around →

I am writing this surrounded by Christmas cake. Like, literally surrounded by it; today is the day Kate brings the boozy fruitcakes she’s been marinating in our fridge out to her parents, so she’s been dividing them up all morning.

And it’s not that I don’t enjoy a slice of boozy, heavy fruitcake; I do, I do. But over at Salon.com, Vincent Rossmeier’s written a very compelling argument in favor of pie, rather than cake, as a holiday dessert:

Sure, plastered with enough frosting and chocolate-ganache implants, cake cuts a fine appearance at a party. But do you ever hear anyone talk about what’s on cake’s inside? Cake’s dazzling superficiality and popularity has allowed us to ignore its tasteless core. All the while, pie has been standing in the corner waiting patiently for us to notice — a little homey looking, sure, but with a personality like you wouldn’t believe.

I know he’s talking about conventional North American cake, rather than fruitcake. (And, again, I really do like fruitcake.) But he’s touched a chord in me, and now I’m pretty sure I have to stop in at Wanda’s around the corner to see what their seasonal pie offerings might be.

It’s all ultimately in the spirit of giving, of course. So nobody’s being slighted. I fully intend to share.

Andrew Carmellini isn’t just one of the best chefs working in New York City — he’s also the husband of my oldest friend in the world. Over the last 15 years, I’ve had the privilege of seeing him go from being that guy Gwen fell for over the course of a cross-Canada road trip to being acclaimed as well, one of the best chefs working in New York City. Seriously, just try to argue that after eating his duck meatballs.

Anyway, Andrew and Gwen have spent most of the last two years putting together a cookbook based on Andrew’s exquisite, instinctive recipes — and Kate and I got to help, sitting in their kitchen over several weekends last summer and helping them evaluate the quality of various appetizers. And by “evaluate” I mean “gobble ferociously and make the ‘more’ face until the next set of plates arrives”.

Like I’ve always said, helping people is its own reward.

“Urban Italian” is out now, and Andrew and Gwen kicked off the promotional tour last night in New York, at the Borders in Time Warner Center; unfortunately, we weren’t able to join them, but we’ll catch up to them at some point. The schedule is up at Andrew’s site. Should you find yourself in proximity to any of their appearances, rebook your day so you can attend; they’re good people, the book is terrific, and they’ll appreciate the attention. Also, there might be snacks.

Oh, and buy the book! In Toronto, it’s available at Good Egg and Pages, and here’s the Amazon.ca link; here’s the Amazon.com URL for US readers.

I believe the Internet term you’re looking for is “nom nom nom”.

Yes, my friends, we can breathe easily and unclench our collective sphincters — my luggage was delivered to our door at about 5:30 pm yesterday, a mere 66 hours after I landed at Pearson. Nothing broken, nothing lost; the bags were a little dusty from sitting in some holding area somewhere, but that was the worst of it.

Thanks for your concern over these trying days of crisis. It’s been appreciated.

What? Were you thinking of something else?