It is not that Julia Reed can write of "our first Chanel suit, our first sip of Petrus or Chateau d'Yquem..." etc. as if "we" not only shared these milestones, but are also so, like, over them. It is not that she somehow manages to review a diet book while only discussing the various times that she has lost weight in her life. It is not even the percentage of the review she manages to devote to herself. It is that somehow the Times paid her for this shit when it wasn't good enough for Condé fucking Nast (which apparently needed the space to address the burning issue of the coconut diet [yeah, I read Vogue: Fuck off]).
On the other hand, to judge from Eliane Sciolino's much better article, Reed and Guiliano deserve each other. Less annoyingly:
I thoroughly enjoyed Bruni's discovery that Ono = Chili's, but the alliteration is indeed growing tiresome. The paradox: If your heat source is barely 5% of what is necessary, why even bother with the wok? Go to Chinatown.
Correction of the day: chocolate frothing was not invented by Europeans. The various implements used to acomplish this were (pre-conquest Mexicans frothed by pouring the liquid between two vessels).
Some days, I just love David Shaw:
When she tired of making fashion comparisons in her book -- and she clearly didn't tire of them nearly as quickly as I did -- Sbrocco took what I think of as the supermarket tabloid approach to women readers and began likening wines to movie stars.