Word: spinach
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They take their time and relax, though, in front of Au Bon Pain, where manager Douglas O. Parker has just set up coffee tables and chairs accomodating 200. While "people love to sit and sip coffee," he said, chocolate, ham and cheese, and spinach croissants are their best sellers. The only new item on Au Bon Pain's menu this spring is blueberry croissants, which they will introduce next week...
...editorial "we," White once described how this process worked: "We write as we please and the magazine publishes as it pleases. When the two pleasures coincide, something gets into print." He also turned his hand to cartoon captions ("Mother: 'It's broccoli, dear.' Child: 'I say it's spinach and I say the hell with it.' ") and to "Newsbreaks," those column-ending snippets of published gaffes, capped by New Yorker quips. A Pittsburgh paper once garbled as follows: "Gent's laundry taken home. Or serve at parties at night." White's response: "Oh, take it home...
...orange tarts. Sooner or later all try their hand at the subtle and restrained garnishes created by Robuchon. He tends to favor a pointillist shimmer of color, sometimes achieved with tiny droplets of tomato sauce dotted from a knife point to rim a sauce of grass-green pureed spinach or by flecks of herbs and vegetables added to a terrine of rabbit set in a pale, jewel-like aspic. Wielding a tiny round cutter that he found in Japan, Robuchon scoops pinpoints of ivory apple and jade avocado to be tossed with lobster for an intriguing appetizer salad...
Americans like cartoons of transformation, fantasies of sudden empowerment. Popeye eats spinach. Clark Kent enters the phone booth. The 97-lb. weakling sends away for the Charles Atlas course. Shazam! The creature that a moment ago looked mortal and ordinary and vulnerable becomes a master of the universe. He can fly. Conquer evil. Get revenge. He is born again, this time as a kind...
...days of vacation. She writhes, and writes, and makes a rare sort of contact. "I swear to you, I don't write fiction," she says. Bill Bombeck and their endlessly libeled children swear she does. No matter; when the jokes splat on the page like strained spinach flung by somebody's centrifugal suburban baby, they are true to life. Bombeck's mail shows that. Women, mostly, write to her about husbands who haven't blinked since the football season started or convict sons or babies put out for adoption. Usually they try to make jokes; Bombeck...