I get to do it all as Dealbreaker Chef de Cuisine, and for that I’m obviously grateful. But like anyone, I have unfulfilled dreams. I’m mortal, after all (though anyone who’s eaten my avocado, bacon, egg and cheese on fresh-baked sourdough bread might beg to differ).
If you ask most of my fellow chefs who they most want to cook for, you’d get the expected responses: heads of state, famous authors, maybe the Manning brothers and Archie.
Not me. The thing I dream about most is actually a catering job at a very specifickind of party. A party in the East Village where a man’s – and woman’s – dreams come true. A place with literally wall-to-ceiling vaginas, and I haven’t even mentioned the guests.
Sometimes after a rough day, you know the kind – the one where your now-former sous chef screwed up the seasoning on the pork medallions or the ship carrying the oysters from Japan capsized – I close my eyes and dare to dream about what it would be like.
I picture myself sitting 5 feet away from the honoured host. He’s pregaming with a glass of Prosecco, and two windows open on his computer. In one, he’s frantically refreshing and re-refreshing the Department of Buildings’ website in hopes that his permit for a roof deck jacuzzi gets approved in time for tonight’s bash. In the other he’s having business cards made – the premium stock – with just three words on them: “Maestro of Fucking.”
Obviously, I’m talking about Nouriel Roubini, and the pleasure it would be to come to one of his parties and feed his motley crew of guests. Instead of the typical items they’ve come to expect at parties thrown and attended by the 1%, I’d open their mind to a finger food humble in presentation and explosive in taste: nachos. Read more »
Everybody’s favorite if embattled digital currency was all set to headline South by Southwest, the two-week-long marketing event that used to be a music festival. But when it arrived, it found it had competition from other fake currencies, notably one represented by a shiba inu. And just as it was set to take center stage, an even greater hero to the anarchist-libertarian-computer programming set beamed his way to Austin from a basement dungeon in the Kremlin, relegating the bitcoiners to a bookstore basement. Read more »
Earlier this week, a dark cloud settled over the East Village. Specifically, East 1st Street, where economist Nouriel Roubini makes his home and where until recently, models and other hot women alike could seek refuge in his rooftop hot tub, which he’d added to the property several years back, and which could accommodate ten. It was the site of many good times: New Year’s Eve parties. Get-togethers to toast Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps. Monday nights when he just wanted to get wet with nine of his closest friends. But now, thanks to a meddlesome neighbor, hellbent on ruining Dr. Doom’s good time, and, sure, the fact that he never got any of the required permits to install the otherwise-illegal party deck, it looked like the good times were over. A friend familiar with the matter told the Post Roubini would “probably just move the hot tub inside” but wouldn’t that be an enormous letdown? A small consolation for those used to al fresco fun?
Still one couldn’t blame the doctor if he decided reinstating his adult-themed water park was more trouble than it was worth. And yet to do so would be to turn his back on his true self: a collector of postmodern vagina art; a lover of life; a man who once told the Financial Times a dreams of his is to one day be known as the maestro of fucking.
And that’s why not hours after the news of HotTubGate broke, Roubini had this to say: Read more »
“The Olympics are an economic failure as London is totally empty: hotels, restaurants, streets,” Nouriel Roubini tweeted. “It turns out London is totally empty. A zombie city…The West End – usually packed on any Saturday night – was an empty waste land last night: barely a soul to be found in theatres, bars, etc,” he said on Twitter. [CNBC]