In This Corner, The Radical Lefty Pinkos

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The Motion Picture Association of America should take a hint. All that swirling controversy around Million Dollar Baby and you'd think maybe the MPAA would come up with some new ratings.

I was watching Inherit the Wind the other day, and Spencer Tracy was clearly promoting evolution, the pinko bastard.

And now Clint Eastwood pushing the liberal agenda with his 'boxing' picture. I mean I don't want to have to think when I plunk down ten bucks, now do I? Just give me that popcorn in a bucket and entertain me.

So Dan Glickman and his ilk (he's not in Kansas, anymore) ought to add to G, PG, PG-13, R, and the what is it, again, NC-17?

How about LT-25 (Light Thinking - adolescence are warned some material contains a soupçon of introspection)

And DT-65+ (Deep Thought - adults are strongly cautioned this film requires serious cerebral attention). Feel free to add your own.

Iraqi Voters: Dizzy from the Count?

Those eight million Iraqi voters sure in hell were motivated. Dashing through the Gelignite and into the polling stations, they were confronted by a mind-numbing list of party slates. And we didn't even get them all:

Islamic Da'wah Party
Constitutional Monarchy Movement
Iraqi Islamic Liberation Party
Iraqi Justice and Development Party
Iraqi National Accord
Council of Baghdad Notables [did they mean notaries?]
National Reconciliation Movement.
Islamic Democratic Current Party.
Islamic Movement of Kurdistan
Kurdistan Islamic Group
[Good ole'] Iraqi Communist Party.
Kurdistan Islamic Union
Kurdistan Socialist Democratic Party
Kurdistan Toilers' Party [the sorrow and woe vote]
Ahl Al-Sunna wa al-Jama'a
Assyrian Democratic Movement
Assyrian National Congress
Assyrian Patriotic Party
Assyrian Socialist Party
Bayt al-Nahrayn Democratic Party
l-Da'wah Al-Islamiyah Party.
Al-Fudala Society.
Constitutional Monarchy Movement
National Democratic Party
Democratic Monarchy Alliance
Free Iraq Council
Free Iraqi Society Party
Al-Fudella Comedians Homeland Alliance [just kidding - checking to see if you read this far]
Democratic Monarchy Alliance [the bring back the Faisals guys]
Muslim Ulama Council
Free Democratic Homeland Party
Free Officers and Civilians Movement
Grouping of Free Iraqis
Higher Council for National Salvation
Independent Iraqi Democrats/Democratic Centrist Tendency [caused the ballot to present as a spreadsheet]
Iraqi Democratic Center Party
Iraqi Homeland Party
Iraqi Islamic Forces Union
Iraqi Islamic Party
Iraqi Justice and Development Party
Iraqi National Alliance (INA)
Iraqi National Congress (INC) [a.k.a. Ahmad Chalabi, Inc.]
Iraqi National Movement
Iraqi Officers Movement
Iraqi National Rally (INR)
Iraqi Turkoman Birth Party
Turkoman National Association
Al-Sadr II Movement. [Muqtada's band of merry men]
Supreme Council for the Islamic Revolution in Iraq
Turkomaneli Party

. . . Stop! There are even more - with descriptions, yet - courtesy of Kathleen Ridolfo

#30# (whew,finally)

On Second Blush: Sistani Plays it Chill

sistani
From the beginning, the Grand Ayatollah Sistani played the game well, too well. He jawboned and outmaneuvered the 'coalition' into holding the election now. While Moqtada Sadr screamed, Sistani whispered. He looked like the the solid non-threatening cleric we could deal with. The nonthreatening 'Negro' -- Joe Lewis to Sadr's Jack Johnson. Will we take anything as long as there's no civil war? The Shia are making noises; there won't be too much Islam in the yet-to-be written constitution they say -- but in some parts of the south, local judges are already imposing Shariah.

At first blush the Iraqi elections looked like a victory for neo-con deep think -- was it? The outcome may be too early to call -- but it looks from here like creeping theocracy is the winnah!

Islamic Constitution in Iraq

Leaves and Conceits: El Restaurante Fidel

EL RESTAURANTE FIDEL


After the Cubans issued that ridiculous 50 Peso stamp in my likeness, I was deluged by e-mails asking about my association with Fidel. The rumor-mongering has reached such a fever pitch, both here in New York and in certain corners of Foggy Bottom, I feel compelled to set the record straight.

It was in the early '50's that I first met Fidel, and looking back on it now, I must admit, honestly, that I did play a role -- quite innocuously really -- in the revolutionary events that swept Cuba just a few, short years later. In those days I was working for the old New York Herald Tribune as the weekend restaurant critic. Fidel had come to my attention, not as politician or chef, but as budding intellectual who had established himself as an enfant terrible among New York’s literati.

One night at Norman Mailer's I was introduced to this intense young man. We spent the better part of the evening getting to know one another and debating our favorite subjects: food, baseball, and especially, politics. I recall at one point Fidel asked if I knew the difference between capitalism and communism. The old joke came to mind: “Under capitalism,” I told him, “Man oppresses Man; and under Communism, it's the other way around.” Fidel stared at me for a moment, and then laughed and laughed before announcing he could easily shoot me in “uno de sus testículos” with the zip gun he carried. After that, we became fast friends.

His appreciation of cuisine—French, German, Spanish of course, even Japanese—was phenomenal, and it came as no surprise that he wished to pursue a career as a chef. My inclination was to discourage him and I cautioned it would take years to become a master, even with his enthusiasm and expertise. Besides, at that time I felt the trend in foods was moving toward triple-decker finger sandwiches, and tuna on rye in a can. [later of course, I was proven correct].

To my surprise, a few months later Fidel telephoned and asked if I might dine at his new restaurant in the theatre district. Never for an instant did I dream the review which came out of that evening's repast, and is reprinted here, would have the most profound geopolitical consequences:

Full Course Dither

Two blocks west of Broadway and just down the street from Wizzo's Puppet Theatre, El Restaurante Fidel is humming softly. Its magenta neon sign and mock Carrara marble facade achieve a peculiar synthesis that beckons diners. And at the door, beaming, with cigar in hand and crouton crumbs sprinkled through a wiry beard, stands a relaxed and gregarious Chef Fidel. It is an attitude though he has failed to impart to his staff.

With its stark and minimalist style, the decor of El Restaurante Fidel is the antithesis of its rich and complex cuisine. Scattered among pieces of patio furniture and the occasional Che's lounge are glass-topped tables awash in the glare of massive flood lights (which appear to have been purloined from the set of ‘Stalag 17’). Ignoring this minor inconvenience, and the regular party of bandoleer-clad men in green fatigues who increase the decibel level a notch higher than a mahjong party at the Hadassah, the setting provides a unique background for a palatable dinner.

Chef Fidel, who worked briefly with Marcel at Restaurant Leslie before striking out on his own, often comes to the table to engage patrons in lively conversation. With his billowy white chef's hat worn slightly askew and a finger waving in the air for emphasis, Fidel will good-naturedly respond to diners' questions for hours on end, generally from a prepared text. Just as we think this delightfully large gnome of a man will never stop his incessant banter, and we are ready to faint straight away, out from the kitchen pour cadres of waiters with delicious cream puffs filled with buttery liver mousse. Only the most self-disciplined among us could avoid asking for seconds of this appetizer, or for that matter the chewy policastro rolls accompanying them.

Of course, one may quarrel with the piquant taste of the Chef's gazpacho, but for those who value the insouciance of a soup flavored to evoke an admixture of seven-alarm chili, it was effectively seasoned. Most of the entrees were as reliable as the appetizers. With few exceptions the restaurant uses the finest ingredients, and when a dish does not quite measure up, it is because Chef Fidel is preoccupied with his other duties: teaching the intricacies of samba to Don Newcombe of the Brooklyn Dodgers, or committing to memory the complete works of Mickey Spillane.

One night for instance, while the strains of Cugat wafted rhythmically from the kitchen, Bertrand Russell stopped by and ordered lobster. When the entree should have been served, Raoul, the headwaiter, appeared and announced somberly that Chef Fidel had burned all the crustaceans. Russell was disconsolate, but eventually settled on the schnitzel. Raoul, puffing on a giant Havana, shook his head disapprovingly and whispered, “Try the halibut.” After some thought, Lord Russell shouted, “Yes, but I am already wearing a bib!” Raoul acceded to this elegant bit of logic and soon found another lobster—although it was short and squat and appeared to have wings.

Desserts, with the exception of a flaccid Banana meringue cake, were luscious and extravagant, particularly the crème brulee prepared by Chef Fidel himself. Not until we asked for Kaiserschmarren and Salzburger nockerl were we told they had to be ordered in advance, and then only if we brought Paul Muni's hat.

In the end, sadly, a brilliant chef is defeated by the shortcomings of a surly dining room staff. The service is unprofessional and rude, even when the restaurant is not full. One waiter insisted that it was our responsibility to tell him what was wrong with the food we left on our plate, “down to the very last fig.” And had Chef not intervened, we were prepared to leave the premises after two waiters appeared in zookeepers' uniforms and threw us mackerel from a bucket. While admiration abounds for our charming host, an evening at Restaurante Fidel is and ‘iffy’ affair at best.

—New York Herald Tribune (1954)

Naturally, Fidel understood there was nothing personal in my review. Actually, he was quite gracious about it and laughed and laughed before he kicked me ‘en mis testículos.’ Almost immediately he set about to improve the restaurant. Fidel announced he would go to the Sierra Maestra mountains of Cuba—there he could find first-rate macaroons with which to prepare a russe that, in his words, "would change the way we view dessert." Fidel wrote me many times from those mountains. In the months that followed he was to grow increasingly morose, gradually abandoning his idea of ‘El Russe Grande.’

In the autumn of 1955 I received a last letter. Fidel had come full circle. He now rejected the notion of haute cuisine entirely, dismissing it as a bourgeois fantasy. In a final, bitter irony, he wrote: "How can I think of sumptuous desserts when the peasants are forced to eat ginger snaps from a tin? Yes my friend, it is only now that I come to recognize the dialectic nature of your review. I shall always be grateful to you for pointing the way."

The months have now turned to years. That little bistro two blocks west of Broadway has become Flo's Video Barn and Body Rub. And the truth of it is, in all that time I never heard from Fidel again.