The Dirty Bits of The James Beard Awards.
For the second year, I was lucky enough to be a reporter at The James Beard Awards last night at Lincoln Center. The official scoop is going up on Grub Street, but the unofficial stuff I’ll spill right here, right now. Lucky for you (less lucky for the names below), I’m in that buzzy, fuzzy physical space where I’m too tired to sleep, just hungover enough to become one with a pepperoni (pizza), and way too spent to censor my feelings. So before I pig out or blank out, let’s do it:
My observations from a tiny, tattered, off-the-shoulder, lacy, hooker dress that I accidentally bought at The Barney’s Warehouse Sale:
Bethenny Frankel is getting scary skinny. When I asked her about it, she was not amused. I’d hate me for asking too. However, hungry n cranky is not her look — and that’s coming from a liar fan who watched her show’s finale at 3am, when I got home last night.
From beginning to end, the ever-charming Meatball Shop guys made 994 jokes about “hot balls.” Somehow they can get away with it…
Gail Simmons wins the James Beard Award for Dewiest Skin. I recycle that line every year. But really, somehow her good karma is reflected in her pores.
Matt from The Feast is not mean. He’s a puppy and I’m sorry I pre-judged.
A secret somebody who I worship in the industry, and who has the best boobs since Blake Lively, insists that Ruth Bourdain is Julie Powell. Perhaps?!
WhistlePig Whisky is what happens before you get dirty, skanky, crass, unfaithful and arrested. In other words, my new Pellegrino.
Gabrielle Hamilton makes me feel inadequate — simultaneously wishing I could be her sister, or sister wife, or just wife.
Thomas Keller has more class than anyone else associated with food. (My blog/My opinion!)
Donatella Arpaia and her new doctor husband are really cute. She wiped mashed potato off his nose.
Anne Burrell doesn’t get me. Those types never do. Who cares.
I was 100% serious when I asked RB at Eater.com if Greg Grossman was a Jonas Brother. (And while we’re linking to her, Restaurant Girl knows how to rock the Pucci. She looked v. pretty!)
On my way to the awards, Mr. Big ran over my toe while pushing a baby stroller on the Upper West Side. I’ll always love him. Although, he’s more like Mr. Big Ass these days…just sayin’.
Daniel Boulud’s after party at Boulud Sud was very grown-up, which I appreciated, even though I was secretly rubbing my bleeding feet under the table while eating bites of fancy Frenchness. DB needs to bottle his freakin’ happiness and sell it at Epicerie Boulud. I’d buy some.
David Chang wouldn’t let me on the chefs-gone-wild Momofuku/Torrisi party bus because I’m press and a certain ex-Ditmas-Park-living writer who loves his Meatopia, apparently blew it for us journos a few years back. I SO wanted to hop on board but only because I was told I couldn’t. Damnit!
That’s all I can say if I want to be invited back for a third year. Had a blast. The chefs, in their own ways, each looked elated, intoxicated, celebratory, stoned, bloated, bored, bummed and/or beautiful. And that’s how they roll.
