Pringles aligot
Hello, clowns!
Sorry for the delay—been an unusually busy week. If you didn’t know, the James Beard Awards were this past Monday here in Chicago, which means I was out on the town crashing parties.
Obviously, you are wondering, “Dannis, as the greatest food writer in all of history, did you attend the James Beard Awards?”
The answer is no, I did not, even though I did receive a media invitation. The James Beard Awards are for mere mortals and besides, as you all know, I have won every single one of them and they all reside in a trophy case which is located deep inside my bulbous ass.
The parties are fun because you get to watch everyone scramble all over each other, identify the chefs they’ve seen on television, then shower them with compliments in the hopes that some of their fame will rub off on them. In the meantime, I’m usually in the corner gobbling up all the canapés, getting crumbs all over my shirt, secretly farting, and deciding whether or not I should drop by Taco Bell on the way home to get an Enchirito.
After being in the presence of such fancy chefs and food writers, however, I have now come crashing back down to earth and am, how u say, “back on my bullshit.”
It’s hard not to wish that I could always eat like a high roller like all the Beardos recently running around our fine city, so I did some thinking. One of the foods Americans often fawn over in order to feel fancy is French food. This is something I rarely make at home, mostly because I am an uncultured neanderthal.
So for this week’s edition of the newsletter, I figured I could simplify a fancy French dish to the point where I would feel both rich and stupid eating it. And what’s more humble, yet beloved, than mashed potatoes?
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