She goes exactly once to a restaurant with three know-nothings and then has the arrogance to trash Brasserie Savoy ("Stomping at the Savoy," Eat, June 17). And, in the sad mode of your wannabe rag, she then criticizes Chronicle food critic Michael Bauer's review of the same restaurant.
Your readers should know that although Ms. Wiseless and her pals give a restaurant exactly one chance, the Chron goes at least three times before rushing to judgment.
I beg to differ with Naomi Wise's French cohort's anti-elitist attempt to rewrite the language of dining ("Stomping at the Savoy," Eat).
The term "entree" is hardly a no-longer-appropriate relic of previous times, but the only word that describes that course which, in all formal dinners, succeeds the appetizer/soup and precedes what the French call the piece de resistance and we call "the main course." At my mom's table -- in this century! -- it was usually something like sweetbreads, too rich for a whole serving but just right as an -- what else? -- entree -- which, for non-Francophones, means "entrance." At my own dinner parties in these more health-conscious times, it often takes the form of a fish course.
I have never understood how this perfectly good and descriptive word was transmogrified by so many American menu-writers into meaning basically the opposite of itself.
Yes, We Bathe Regularly
I was wondering if Matt Smith was ever a bike messenger. How did he come to "understand the one-of-a-kind subculture of San Francisco bicycle messengers" ("Art on Two Wheels," June 24)?
I've been a bike messenger for about five years and I have never listened to thrash-punk-metal, I don't "pride" myself on knowing the arcane court-documents filing system, and my valor is not measured in scabs or injuries. Most bike messengers I know don't want to cut in front of buses, jump off of foot-high curbs, or ride against traffic. I know that I take a bath once a day, do my laundry once a week, and if my hair is "scraggly" it's because I've been riding my bike for a couple of hours. Most bike messengers I know have bachelor's degrees and prefer riding their bikes and being outside to sitting in an office doing a job they hate just because that's what their parents did.
Bike messengers are not slackers. A slacker does not ride for nine to 10 hours a day, doing somewhere between 50 and 70 miles a day, delivering between 20 and 50 tags a day for $250 to $400 a week! A slacker is someone who writes an article about bikes, wants to include a segment about bike messengers, and relies on an old stereotype instead of actually getting outside and meeting someone who rides a bike for a living.
Editor's note: Matt Smith was indeed a bike messenger.
Single, Employed Canadian Man Seeks Nonmaterialistic Woman
Given San Francisco's reputation as a place for worldly adults with minds of their own, I can only continue to watch in wonder at the proliferation of advertisements which insult every aspect of human intelligence and emotion.
The Lovelinks advertisement in the June 17 issue, which implied "expensive service = quality men," is among the best examples extant. Lovelinks seems to be marketing its service to the kind of girls who prefer the libertarian/emotionally vacant/college-degree-inherited-from-parents guy to someone who has to work for a living.
Ladies, in case it needs to be made clear, there are plenty of men out there with much to offer, who do not make a lot of money. For the non-rich, even the "cheap" services quickly grow expensive, particularly if one's sense of humor and interests (sexual and/or other) are at all esoteric.
Sorry for the alkaline nature of the above, but the constant stream of insult against non-yuppies really does get hard to take at times. None of this is intended as criticism of SF Weekly.
On a more positive note, thanks for your brief, amusing note on Canada's cultural summit ("Cultural Great Satan," Dog Bites, June 17). Living here for any length of time and reading the mainstream press, it seems that one would need ESP to know Canada exists.