- Francis Lam discovers that Paul Liebrandt (of Corton in New York City) is fan of the ShamWow, and writes possibly the only appearance, in the history of Gourmet, of the phrase "fistfight with a prostitute." (Gourmet's web archives go only so far back.)
- John Schnatter, the founder, chairman, and former CEO of Papa John's, is doing some PR stunt in which he's going on a road trip looking for the the '72 Camaro he sold back in 1984 to start his company. Proving that money doesn't buy happiness, but it can buy you a '72 Camaro.
- GQ's Material Interest blog writes a love letter to Coors Original:
This may sound absurd to anyone born after 1975, but there was actually a time when Coors—and I mean Coors, not the watered-down Silver Bullet stuff your girlfriend drank on spring break—was, bar none, beer of choice for the man's man. Both Hud and the real-life Paul Newman loved the stuff. Tom Waits was known to knock back a few. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young swilled it while hanging out in Laurel Canyon... And what did The Graduate's Benjamin Braddock take to drinking while drifting in the pool after getting his first taste of red-hot American cougar? Coors.
- The June/July issue of Details has a story of a mom who takes her son to Las Vegas to visit strip clubs and get laid. He lacks a filter:
"I like their boobs," he continues. "Yeah. Lovely nipples. Perfect breasts. They're like chicken breasts."
"You've got a tendency to compare things to food, haven't you, Otto?" Bill says.
"Yeah," Otto says. "Burgers with boobs. Stick in an olive—it's like a nipple. And they have legs like bacon. And their bottom is like a steak. And they also have eyes like round biscuits. Actually, their whole body's like a biscuit. I'm hungry for a stripper."
- Jay Rayner visits and reviews a secret dining club in London, where you even get to smoke in the upstairs bedroom:
It would be easy to enjoy such a thing purely because of the novelty. The times may be shrinking, but too many restaurants seem still to be engineered for boom and glitter, for a world of canapés that are pretty on the eye but Mogadon in the mouth. There's a hunger about so much of the current restaurant world, one which has nothing to do with a need for sustenance - and that can be tiresome. By contrast, a supper club is relaxed and unburdened. No great corporation is involved. No one will lose their shirt, let alone their house, if it doesn't work. It's a lark, albeit a self-conscious one. But as we know, there is a thin line between comedy and tragedy, and if an event like this failed on the one thing that mattered it would swiftly shade over into the latter. It doesn't. The food is good, in places great.