Take a walk on the wild side -- NYC

Yesterday morning was a glorious morning for a stroll through Central Park. Snow from the storm a couple of days ago lay on the ground. The sun was out. The air, while crisp on my face, couldn't penetrate the layers of clothing. I was on my way to a rainwater harvesting seminar sponsored by the Council on the Environment for NYC.

Basically, things were zippidy do-da-ing my way. I think I might even have been humming a happy tune despite myself -- something that happens, sadly, when I'm far from feeling sadly.

All of the sudden, from the high branches of an oak tree about 20 feet to my right, a hawk dropped down looking for breakfast, courtesy of a gray squirrel zippidy do-da-ing its way around the base of the tree. There was a sharp flurry of feathers and fur.

When it ended, the squirrel skittered about three feet up the tree, leaving the hawk standing, embarrassed, talon deep in snow. The hawk was doing its best "cat falls off counter but meant to do that" posturing. Up the tree, the squirrel was giving it a major ass chewing.

The hawk ignored the verbal abuse, waited about 10 seconds (an acceptable amount of "I meant to do that" time), looked at me, puffed its feathers and flew into a nearby tree, where it perched, back to the still bitching squirrel.

Zippidy do-da!

Acme -- Southernish food in NYC

The sign outside Acme reads "Authentic Southern and Cajun Cooking". Proclamations like that make my Epicurean Security Administration terror alert system go to orange.

The only thing that keeps me out of Red is that I automatically disregard claims of "authentic cooking". It has nothing to do with the tastiness of the food or the authentic-ness of the recipes and everything to do with the fact that it ain't authentic unless someone's momma is cookin' it on a Hotpoint range and you're eatin' it in their Formica accented kitchen.

It's a core mistrust of the concept my biscuit-bakin', bream-fryin', collards-boilin', Sno Cap-slingin', Hotpoint and Formica kitchenin', Southern to her Karo syrup-slurpin' soul (may it rest in peace) ma-maw sniffed at and called "cafe food." Unless you are advertising "authentic cafe food" at a cafe, you ain't exactly tellin' the truth. Not that I expect you too, really. It would be unreasonable for me to demand that your sign read "Authentic Southernish and Cajunlike Restaurant Cooking."

The culinary waters get even murkier when you start mixing genres ... Southern and Cajun, Chinese and Korean, Mutt-ern and Jeff-inese (I'll let you youngsters Google that one). For the record, Southern and Cajun ain't kin. Think of it this way. Southern and Soul are cousins across the fence ... or more correctly, sadly, across the tracks. Southern and Cajun just happen to live within a long day's drive of each other.

If that isn't bad enough, we have to add in market factors. To put it bluntly, my ma-maw would never have grilled a portobello mushroom cap. My friend's Nonc Nile (Nonc is coonass for uncle. Nile is the river, cuz that's how crooked he was) would never have grilled a portobello mushroom cap. Wouldn't never have happened. Not even if Christ his own self or a resurrected Gov-nna Huey Long had asked. Truth to tell, my ma-maw woulda jack-slapped either of 'em upside the head for even askin'. I'm pretty sure Nonc Nile'da felt the same way, only he'da used a hammer.

So, let us grab a ladder, a brush, a can of whitewash and a cadre of our most gullible friends and eradicate the word "authentic" from every damn restaurant in New York City.

I'll wait.

Done yet?

Good.

Now, let's talk about Acme.

I go on a regular basis -- and, to ma-maw's eternal shame I always get the grilled portobello mushroom caps. Tuesdays are $2 beers. Appetizers are half price until 7 p.m. every night. The canned music is OK until they get into a Zydeco jag (but that's a different rant). The food is purtey near tasty, even if it ain't really authentic. The hot sauce selection is prodigious. The dress code seems to be that you have to wear clothes ... for the most part, although no one has actually come right out and said it.

And the bartender -- Rudy -- is ... ummm. ... Mere words can't describe. I'll just say this. If you don't love Rudy, you are a degenerate puppy kicker and should be forced to walk through town from "authentic " restaurant to "authentic " restaurant with a scarlet "PK" sewn to your chest. Not to your shirt. Straight to your heartless damn chest.

That's all I'm sayin'.