I got a new job, which I will start next month. It’s in Mahattantown and has three stars from The New York Times. I ate there last night and didn’t get the shits. That’s my test: If a place gives me the trots it makes The List.

This is what happens when you order anything raw from Blue Ribbon in Brooklyn. 

A: Because they’re too fucking busy.

My friend and I came up with a time killer / conversation starter / drinking topic based upon the Seinfeld episode with “Fusilli Jerry”. That krazy Kramer build a mini of Jerry made out of dried fusilli pasta. Because Jerry is “silli”. So when I’m out with a group of people I like to assign them what pasta shape they would be based on aesthetics and personality.

Here are some celebrity examples I came up with:

• Mario Batali would be ravioli, because he’s big and full of good stuff.
• Christian Bale would be penne, because he’s versitile.
• Paris Hilton would be bucatini because she’s a stick who is hollow inside. Burn!
• Michael Phelps would be lasgna.
• Posh Spice would be angel hair.

Go to the National Pasta Association to see various shapes.

Stay tuned for my next game: How would you cook your friends?

Full of holes for your eating pleasure.

I’m fucking lazy and don’t feel like summarizing the shit for you. It involves neighborhood bar crawls (Manhattan and Brooklyn) and festivals and brewery tours and food and um, getting torn up.

Just go here: NY Craft Beer Week. (It’s actually ten days.)

Or, if you are lazy like me, you can just sit in one beer bar for ten days instead of using your legs like a chump.

“Here in the city there was food everywhere. The cobbled streets of the fish market were lined with great baskets of big silver fish, caught in the night out of the teeming river; with tubs of small shining fish, dipped out of a net cast over a pool; with heaps of yellow crabs, squirming and nipping in peevish astonishment; with writhing eels for gourmands at the feasts. At the grain markets there were such baskets of grain that a man might step into them and sink and smother and none know it who did not see it; white rice and brown and dark yellow wheat and pale gold wheat, and yellow soybeans and red beans and green broad beans and canary-colored millet and grey sesame. And at the meat markets whole hogs hung by their necks, split open the length of their great bodies to show the red meat and the layers of goodly fat, the skin soft and thick and white. And duck shops hung row upon row, over their ceilings and in their doors, the brown baked ducks that had been turned slowly on a spit before coals and the white salted ducks and the strings of duck giblets, and so with the shops that sold geese and pheasant and every kind of fowl.

As for the vegetables, there was everything which the hand of man could coax from the soil; glittering red radishes and white, hollow lotus root and taro, green cabbages and celery, curling bean sprouts and brown chestnuts and garnishes of fragrant cress. There was nothing which the appetite of man might desire that was not to be found upon the streets of the markets of that city. And going hither and thither were the vendors of sweets and fruits and nuts and of hot delicacies of sweet potatoes browned in sweet oils and little delicately spiced balls of pork wrapped in dough and steamed, and sugar cakes made from glutinous rice, and the children of the city ran out to the vendors of these things with their hands full of pennies and they bought and they ate until their skins glistened with sugar and oil.”

I’m fucking hungry now.