Today Grub Street let us know that Publisher's Marketplace is reporting that Bruni sold the rights to his to Fremantle and a show based on them will be produced by Tollin Productions, the same people behind One Tree Hill and Smallville. Does that mean that Bruni is going to be rubbing elbows with Serena Van Der Woodsen on the CW? Dunno yet. We also don't know if this will be a reality type deal or if they're going to be dramatizing the life of a food critic racked by food issues. If that's the case, we smell Emmy—we we don't taste it, because that would mean empty calories.

What we do know is that Bruni still hates Jeffrey Chodorow, doesn't worry about counting calories when at a restaurant, and thinks that Yelp is great and all, but it's no NY Times. That is all thanks to a video of him being interviewed by Mike Colameco as part of the 92nd Street Y's "Food Talks" series. Would you welcome this man onto your TV set once a week?

[Image via AP]

• A tired-looking Sarah Jessica Parker took her three children for a walk and, again, looked tired. So everyone says she has one foot in the grave and it's all Sex and the City's fault because SJP has to work so hard! Pitchforks, please. [Daily Mail]
  
  
• Can you believe that someone as famous as Britney Spears has been checking into hotels under assumed names? Once those pitchforks are done with SJP-murdering Sex and the City, turn them on Spears. She's evil. [Page Six]
  
  
• Everyone and their mother's leaving at intermission for the latest incarnation of Othello, which stars Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Blasphemy! [Page Six
  
  
• Oliver Hudson, Goldie Hawn's less famous child, will soon have a second baby with wife Erinn Bartlett. Mazel! [NYDN]
  
  
• Suri Cruise's wardrobe is worth more than your impoverished life! (PS: Can you believe we live in a society where children are both richer and more fascinating that actual adults? Now, turn those pitchforks on yourselves. And us.) [San Francisco Chronicle]
  
  
• Lily Allen went out, got drunk and her sad, pathetic boyfriend had to watch. [3am]
  
  
• Famous actor Dennis Hopper has been released from the hospital, so halt your prayers. [CBS]
  
  
• The ever-wonderful Liza Minnelli will cover Beyonce's "Single Ladies," because she knows something about such matters. Well, kind of... [MSNBC]
  
  
• Katy Perry, a singer who will no doubt be remembered as a one-hit wonder, has been "snogging" Russell Brand, a comedian of some sort. She also sent him pictures of her boobies. [The Sun]
  
  
• Why are people surprised that a man as rich and connected as Simon Cowell would spend massive amounts of money on his birthday? More importantly, why were we not invited? [Daily Mail]
  
  
• Jon Gosselin's been acting like more of an ass than usual since splitting with his equally horrid wife. Now TLC has suspended the reality show he left because of his "erratic behavior." Huh? [NYDN]
  
  
• A comedian named Billy Eichner recently recounted a sex session with former NYT food critic Frank Bruni, who, said Eichner at the time, has an "oral fixation." What does that even mean? He likes food? Oh... Well, who doesn't? [Page Six]
  
  
• Quentin says there will be a Kill Bill 3. Hoorah! [Page Six]

Salon's Kerry Lauerman interviewed the "city's most terrifying eater," and Bruni revealed the horrifying truth about the author photo for Ambling Into History, his 2002 book about Bush, which happened to be the one photo circulating when Bruni disappeared himself into anonymity for his restaurant gig—it was digitally stretched out to lengthen his face and make him look less fat:

[T]he one photo that was out there a lot and was more accurate was in fact a photo that was a total lie. As you know, I tell the story in the book about when my author photo was being taken for a book I wrote that was published in 2002 about George W. Bush. I was at my big weight, and it was unacceptable to me that I look like that in my author photograph. And without ever even telling the publishing house, I not only had a lot of shadowy photography done but I had a kind of early version of Photoshopping done to the photo to kind of stretch my face.

Bruni also lets drop that the VERY BLOG YOU ARE READING unwittingly snapped a photo of Bruni in 2005. That's Lauerman at a Gawker party for Arianna Huffington (those were the days!), and the man who reflexively turned his head away from the camera on the right is the mysterious Bruni. Now that we see it, we'd recognize that ear anywhere.

Here's the full Skype interview:

Frank Bruni, former restaurant critic: Bruni already got the chance to talk up his own kiddie bulimia in the NYT mag. Just the beginning! He'll be talking about it on Nightline on August 19. Sample transcript quote:

[Nightline]: You were 8 years old on the Atkins Diet?

Bruni: Yeah… the Atkins Diet came out in hardcover when I was 8, if I have my arithmetic correct. ‘Cause I remember mom bought it in hardcover so this was serious stuff and I remember leafing through it and learning about ketones and ketosis and you know, having no idea what that meant, I was 8 years old, but I thought, ooo that's profound stuff. If I can get into this ketosis thing I'll be home free. I'll be skinny.

Bruni is now the Food Critic With Food Issues.

Jill Abramson, managing editor: Not just managing editor for news; managing editor for puppies, too! She is the Serious News Lady With a Smooshy Marshmallow Puppy Center.

Alex Kuczynski, former shopping columnist: Rich Botox Lady Who Will Talk About Same, Endlessly.

David Carr, media critic: The Marlboro Man of Media. With a heart of gold!

Jennifer 8 Lee, metro reporter: Hard-Working Internet Addict Who Loves Chinese Food.

Andrew Ross Sorkin, Dealbook columnist: Wunderkind Who Could Totally Be a Rich I-Banker But Isn't Yet. The next Steven Rattner?

All The Opinion Columnists: Suave Expert on [Made Up Topic] But a Snazzier Writer Than Usual! Also, too rich!

And of course, the one future Self-Brand we'd like to see speaks for itself:

AG Sulzberger: Baller.

Before the Internet, the Times sought to keep their food critics anonymous, so that they could get an unbiased sampling of the food and service they were reviewing. This led to one of those silly-but-fun media games where Xeroxed photos of the major food critics would be passed among restauranteurs and posted discretely at the front, forcing Sifton's predecessors like Ruth Reichl to don wigs and hats.

Sifton had been the editor in charge of the Times culture department before he decided to take the food critic job so he had a couple official NYT headshots taken that were posted, according to Google Image search, here and here. Even though they're now gone, pretty much every blog that cares who the New York Times food critic is has reposted them. So even before he reviewed one measly restaurant, Sifton's cover has been utterly blown.

I asked Richard Blakeley to come up with some possible disguises for him. He came up with Harry Potter, former NYT critic Frank Bruni and that partying dude from Australia. Surely you can do better. Please leave your suggestions in comments, where we have a fun and easy tool to upload images.

P.S. Anyone got a better, bigger image of Sifton? That's the biggest one we have. Email me and I'll post it here so as to make your Photoshopping that much easier.

Atmosphere
Bruni, with nothing left to critique, critiques his childhood menu of stuffing his face full of every food known to man, from Quiche Lorraine to Snickers to sausage pizza to lamb chops to Big Macs to bacon-wrapped chicken liver to... BLAAAAH!!!

Recommended Dishes

The way Mom told the tale, I plowed through that second burger as quickly as I had the first. Then I looked up from my highchair with lips covered in hamburger juice, a chin flecked with hamburger bun and hamburger ecstasy in my wide brown eyes. I started banging my balled little fists on the highchair's tray.

I wanted a third.

Ladies and gents, to emphasize again: He. Was. One.

On momma denying him the third:

Up came the remnants of Burger No. 2, and up came the remnants of Burger No. 1.... It became a pattern. No fourth cookie? I threw up. No midafternoon meal between lunch and dinner? Same deal.

Whine List
Less a savory meditation on the dangers of childhood obesity, the article is a tart and tangy, romanticized glorification of a disturbed kiddie psychosis, a sad personal portrait of America getting fatter by the second. He gives his distressing ode to gluttony four frickin' stars, self-indulgent in his childhood chomping. Admittedly, things perk up when he describes his college-aged secrets to being a successful bulimic: the best campus bathrooms, how to successfully purge after dinner with friends, all those savory details.

He found such a clever way to cope with his severe eating disorder:

...so many other extreme or warped weight-management regimens...took the place of bulimia as I struggled for decades to figure out how to answer my appetite without being undone by it and as I traced an unlikely route to the most implausible of destinations: professional eating.

Justify your destructive, traumatizing addictions by making them your life's profession! Hey, we've always cherished tearing other people apart for sport, so why can't we go and...

Oh, wait.

Dear Colleagues:

When we recruited Frank Bruni from the Rome Bureau to be the restaurant critic of The New York Times, there was a quizzical buzz in the food-o-sphere. Sure, Frank had shown himself to be a gifted reporter on subjects domestic and foreign. Yes, he was indisputably an exquisite writer. And there were unmistakeable clues to his affinity in his travel pieces, with their vivid evocation of Italian food, and in other features — the profile of the makers of Italian grappa, the visit to the University of Gastronomic Science in Polenzo. But he lacked what the foodie establishment would regard as suitable credentials. He was not the obvious choice.

Five years later, the choice seems not only obvious, but inspired, proving that sometimes editors get one really right. Not content to review his way around New York with authority and brio, not content to blog discoveries that do not yet merit a fullblown review, he has also performed more ambitious feats of criticism: his unforgettable cross-country tour of the iconic fast food joints of America, for instance, and his quest for the best brand-new restaurants in all of America.

In his spare time, between aerobic eating and the requisite gym time to burn it all off, he has managed to produce a memoir of his lifelong, complicated relationship with food. Recognizing that the book is certain to seriously compromise his ability to be a spy in the land of food, Frank picked this as a natural time to move on. He will be turning in his restaurant-critic credentials when his memoir, "Born Round: the Secret
History of a Full-Time Eater," is published in late August.

After a break for book promotion and some overdue vacation, Frank will become a writer-at-large on the staff of our Sunday magazine, where he will have license to follow his appetites — his journalistic appetites — whereever they lead him. Jill and I have insisted on the right to draft him occasionally for projects large or small, but the magazine will be his base and main outlet. Readers are in for some great reading.

As for the restaurant beat, the search for a successor begins now.

Bill

With his November 4th campaign wrap-up, including his feud with the Hillary Clinton campaign over access, behind him, Healy follows in the footsteps of cantankerous Times reporter Frank Bruni, who went from covering the 2000 election to wild run as the paper's food critic. Healy recently reviewed the off-Broadway political play Farragut North, and he recently filed a textured, measure report about the rape scene in the Soho Rep production of Blasted. Our favorite moment from the Broadway-bound journalist was when he was recently asked, "Do you miss covering the Clinton presidential campaign?" He responded, "LOL."

Jump From Political Beat [Portfolio]

You have to remember that for a lot of reporters, today is the last gasp of glory. By the end of this week the campaign will be over, and there will be far fewer opportunities to go on TV and be "experts." There may also be far fewer opportunities to be, you know, reporters; some percentage of these people are bound to be laid off in the coming year. We already know that the LA Times will be laying off the bulk of its Washington bureau. And most ofl those plucky young embedded reporters from TV networks are preparing to be fired when this thing wraps up.

Everybody wants to make sure that you know that they were on the inside. Just because you, the consumer, didn't get all the colorful anecdotes in your morning paper doesn't mean that they didn't happen. Reporters have all types of fun memories from the campaign that they would like to share with you now that the campaign is over! Most of these fall into two categories: the "God these candidates are more morally bankrupt than I could ever say outright in the pages of my tepid publication," and the (more popular) "I made friends with important people!" Some key examples of each:

God these candidates are more morally bankrupt than I could ever say outright in the pages of my tepid publication

Michael Scherer from Time went to some Republican retreat in Michigan where politicians "came there to speak to state party activists, serving up stump pomp while waiters in white-tie tuxedos served drunk diners with pecan-coated ice cream balls." Then he finds a regular lady who says everyone in town is not like that. He rejoices.

HuffPo's Sam Stein was set upon by a gang of disgruntled Hillary supporters in a Washington bar. "And soon the denizens were letting me have a piece of their mind. 'HuffPost sucks! HuffPost sucks!' they chanted, as I bit into my now-arrived Reuben. 'Fox News, fair and balanced! Fox News, fair and balanced!'" Although he does not say so, he hates them.

Marc Ambinder from the Atlantic recalls watching Obama's little daughter Sasha talking to her daddy on stage at the Democratic convention; it "was very cute, but it also revealed how staged even Obama’s campaign had become." The thought of a little girl talking to her dad now makes him want to absolutely vomit. Politics has ruined him.

I made friends with important people!

Wacky old Dana Milbank from the Washington Post remembers Mike Huckabee "taking reporters hunting, taking them jogging, taking them to the barber for a face massage and shave." Dana Milbank would not object to being asked to appear on Mike Huckabee's teevee show, if Mike Huckabee so chose.

Ana Marie Cox from Time had fun singing karaoke with McCain campaign hacks Mark Salter and Steve Schmidt. Salter even sung Dylan tunes! Later they went back to figuring out how to oppress black people.

Adam Nagourney from the Times liked nothing better than sharing his Christmas dinner with failed Hillary flack Howard Wolfson: "We were quick to discover that there aren't a lot of restaurants open in Des Moines on Christmas night (or bars, but that's another story). But what was open was sure to warm the heart of two displaced Jews from New York: A Chinese restaurant." Aw! Then they made passionate love.

You see, just about everyone on the campaign trail goes a little crazy. It's classic Stockholm syndrome; trapped on buses and planes for months on end, reporters come to regard their captors as friends. Just to get a fact-free look back at the election season to fill a hole in its Week in Review section yesterday, the NYT had to turn to Frank Bruni, who's spent the entire campaign eating brains at Manhattan's finest restaurant. But they needed an outsider who could say about this godforsaken campaign, presumably with a straight face, "that we have, if anything, undervalued and even lost sight of its significance at times." Had they put Adam Nagourney on that story, the editors would have had to spend hours rewriting his knowing asides about Howard Wolfson's bewitching cologne.

For the media, the campaign means life. It means purpose, and employment, and attention, and a sense of self-importance. It's an unparalleled opportunity to cast oneself as an expert with no qualifications whatsoever, and to profess to speak for millions of "real Americans" without any factual basis. In reality, campaign reporters have a far less objective view of the Presidential race than a fat, laid-off auto worker sitting on his ass playing XBox in the ugly part of Toledo.

It takes a rare breed to remain sane during the ordeal. And we should salute those who do. So Joshua Green of the Atlantic, we salute you; you alone have found a moment that appropriately embodies American democracy:

My most memorable moment on the trail was getting offered weed by a Ron Paul supporter during the Republican primary in Ames, Iowa. He had urgently wanted to discuss the gold standard and I wasn't having any part of that, so I guess the weed was intended as an enticement.

USA.

[Pic: HST]

Though he deems it "satisfactory," Bruni points out Michael's most obvious flaw: it charges outrageous prices to people who want to see and be seen, so who cares about the food? I'll tell you who: Frank Bruni.

The shrimp were entombed in a dense, soggy beer batter and interred in an almost monochromatic landscape of goat cheese, puddles of dark miso aioli and shavings of summer truffle that might have been shavings of summer rubber for all the flavor they had.

California cuisine? More like gloppy, affected pub grub, for which Michael’s charges $25

Zing! You could have had a corner seat, Frank, but now forget it. How about the obligatory media-food tie-in?

Across a series of visits I had some enjoyable food, notably the renowned Cobb salad, less a salad than an entire ecosystem, vast and verdant, with enough avocado to feed three I.C.M. agents or five Vogue editors.

Gracious. Now back to the main point:

And shouldn’t a diner paying $38 for sea scallops get more than two, situated at opposite ends of a long hillock of sautéed snow pea leaves?

Also keep in mind Michael's is hated by its own waiters, and its sommelier gave Bruni a bum recommendation on Chardonnay. On the upside, you are guaranteed to meet Laurel Touby there.

[NYT; pic via Radar]

Wake up at Gansevoort breakfast includes water, cereal and fresh fruit. Simply perfect. Everyone that served had something that I call sunshine...a nice smile. Lunch at Four Seasons was a small filet and I asked for a small salad but add a ton of shrimp on it. No problem. Perfect lunch and perfect service. For dinner I took my $2500 " date" from Zurich to Papaya King. We brought the food back to the hotel and I watched Marta stick it up her Swiss twat.The only thing Bruni would review would be the hot dog not how Marta prepared it and served it to herself. No this isn't a Playboy or Forum story its my life. ANYWAYS. Enough with dancing mushrooms and asparagus parfaits. I like fine food and great presentation but if you travel all the time meat loaf,potato salad or a good BLT hits the spot. Momofuku can blow me. If I can get an appointment for my daughter to see possibly one of the top brain cancer doctors in the world but I can't get into this noodle joint they should change their name to Momofuku kaka.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

#1: Be late with the reviewer's reservation.

He returned at 9:02 with something less than disaster relief. Our table, he said, should be ready in 10 minutes. Never mind that we'd been told at 8:45 that we had five minutes to go. Never mind that Ago has some 110 seats, giving it more flexibility than many restaurants have.

We waited. And waited. One of the hostesses finally fetched us at 9:22. I'll do the math: that's 52 minutes after our reservation.

#2: Spill wine on the reviewer or his friends.

I'm talking about the "Poseidon Adventure" of wine spills. Shelley Winters could have done the backstroke in it. I'm not sure how the bartender set it in motion, and neither was he. He kept marveling at its fury and aftermath: my friend's wine-splashed chin, her wine-soaked skirt, her wine-sopped entirety.

#3: Put the reviewer at the worst table in the house.

She led us to a round table little bigger than a bike wheel. When our four appetizers later arrived and claimed every square millimeter of it, the waiter audibly contemplated balancing a fifth, communal appetizer that we'd ordered on top of our wine glasses.

The table was pressed so close to a column that I couldn't lower my right arm all the way, and if my wine-drenched friend leaned back in her chair, the column obstructed her view of me and mine of her.

#4: Have bad food.

This restaurant isn't in the hospitality business. It's in the attitude business, projecting an aloofness that permeated all of my meals there, nights of wine and poses for swingers on the make, cougars on the prowl and anyone else who values a sort of facile fabulousness over competent service or a breaded veal Milanese with any discernible meat.

The one I had one night was pounded so thin that the breading on top met the breading on the bottom without pausing for much of anything in between. A vegan could have made peace with it.

#5: Have waiters who are jerks.

Then came an entree that perplexed us, a pale slab of meat with one long bone.

"What is this?" asked one of my friends.

"The special veal chop," said the food deliverer.

"But I ordered rack of lamb," my friend said. I had heard him.

"Yes," said the deliverer. "That's rack of lamb."

My friend pressed: which was it?

"It's the special rack-of-lamb veal chop," the deliverer said, at which point we sought deliverance from him and searched for our frequently vanishing waiter, whom I had come to think of as the bucatini Houdini.

[NYT]

Kottke explains the technical side of this feat, but the best part is watching the commenters on Bruni's Diners Journal blog. Some of them, after various technological contortions, got reservations:

One even offered his own review (since Bruni hasn't yet gotten in):

Very "ooo-mommy" indeed.

"I think enjoyment of food has never proven to be harmful to anyone's health," said Mr. [Steven] Shaw, who turned from practicing law to writing about food in the late 1990s with an article for salon.com defending fat guys. He still cultivates a persona in print and online as The Fat Guy, and at 5-foot-10 weighs about 270 pounds.

Mr. Shaw said he believes the genetic component of weight and health matter more than moderation and exercise. Although his father died from heart disease, he thinks that the state of medical knowledge on the relationship of diet to health changes so frequently that it can't be trusted.

Some of his views about diet and health border on the extreme. "I think the whole diabetes thing is a major hoax," he said. "They are overdiagnosing it."

In other words: "I am an idiot." Steven Shaw is plodding towards a meat-induced coma, the timing of which will surely be directly correlated to how much he continues to spout delusional health advice. The self-imposed decline of a man's health is a sad thing to watch, I say as I light a cigarette. In any case, if Shaw does decide to turn his life around, there is only one clear strategy for success: