Whenever St. Valentine’s Day draws near, my thoughts turn to cod. True, there initially may seem nothing so unromantic as the humble Gadus morhua, which spends its life swimming along the ocean floor, mandibles agape, devouring anything in its path. Fishermen have even been known to slit open these vacuum…

Such is my cross, that I must often let fly a long-winded raspberry in the face of those I wish were doing a better job of feeding me. Call it culinary tough-love. As my pappy was wont to declare before caning my hide raw for mooning a schoolmarm or some…

For whatever blasted reason, my missteps have been costing me beaucoup simoleons of late. So I thought I’d share these with you that you might gain wisdom from my blunders, much along the same lines as we all stand to benefit from Christina Aguilera’s decision to go skanky or Miss…

Pardon me for saying so, but I’m beginning to wonder if some folks in this town need their craniums checked for nests of field mice. Of course, by now, I’m sure quite a few of you are thinking the same of moi — at least if one’s to judge by…

I was puttering about in my housecoat and slippers the other day, listening to Puccini’s Turandot and fiddling with my collection of foreign bottle caps, when I spotted the purple top for a bottle of Young’s Double Chocolate Stout. One of my favorite brews, its company logo features a ram…

Scripture informs us that a prophet is never welcome in his own country, and the same holds true for exceptional individuals in one’s own backyard. Even the surly savants of the New Times editorial staff are not immune to this truism. Consider the injustice done to their next-door neighbor, Stacy…

For good or ill, it was Dean Martin who led me to Pronto Ristorante. Not that I mean Ol’ Pink Eyes himself arose from his grave to guide me, drink and cigarette in hand, to this P-town pasta house. But he might as well. See, Santa was good to me…

Everyone remembers their first time . . . eating raw oysters, that is. Why, this garrulous gourmand was but a callow underclassman at UNC-Chapel Hill, when during a fall break I was invited to an oyster shuck thrown by some rowdy fellows with whom I shared courses. With kegs flowing…

As a member in good standing of PETA (that’s People for the Eating of Tasty Animals), I’ve long nursed a flesh-eating fantasy that would put serial bison-killer Ted Nugent to shame: a ranch-restaurant where all manner of critters roam the grounds, everything from javelina and jackrabbit to ostrich and Gambel’s…