What can I say, I derive much amusement from the merest suggestion of McDonald’s-inspired mayhem. Especially when it’s mixed with a fear of clowns.

Or is it more of a fear of fast-food pimpness? I can just imagine this statued Ronald’s accompanying dialogue: “You better have my money before I bitch-slap your McNuggetty ass!”

It’s no secret that the bold “city that never sleeps” tagline primarily applies to nocturnal opportunities. And so it is that some guidance is required for navigating early-morning pursuits in Manhattan on the weekends, when most of the natives are sleeping it off.

This is in contrast to people elsewhere in America, who often maximize their Saturday-Sunday time by starting the free-time ticker barely after dawn has struck. I can’t think of a better way to sum up this incongruity than this:

That puts you on track for about a 7 a.m. breakfast, which is tricky business in these parts. Most restaurants that are open at that hour in the city are big chains — Starbucks and McDonald’s, for example — adhering to national standards that don’t quite fit in Manhattan. (We see this elsewhere, as well, like the use of a driver’s license as the standard form of identification in a place where no one drives.)

I’m not as bad as others, who consider noon the optimal weekend wakeup marker. But true, the only way I’ll see 7AM on one of my off-days is if I back into it — just before collapsing into the “previous” night’s slumber.

Try to follow along here:

To introduce their new non-pizza offerings, Pizza Hut had some fun with an April Fool’s announcement that it was rebranding itself as “Pasta Hut”.

As a follow-up to this campaign, it’s been running a TV commercial to promote these new dishes, called Tuscani Pastas. The spot follows a time-honored format — hidden-camera taste-testing — but with a questionable wrinkle:

The commercial purports to gather unwitting eaters to try the food at Tuscani in New York, and then revealing to them on hidden camera that in fact it’s Pizza Hut pasta, not Tuscani’s pasta.

As far as I can tell, there’s no Tuscani restaurant in New York. Although it’s a pretty effective ad, it seems to me that if they made up the whole thing it’s particularly egregious, even for the advertising world.

No Tuscani’s, but no problem:

The people were invited to an actual restaurant that is named Provence, he adds, but [according to ad agency BBDO] “we intentionally did not reveal the name and instead outfitted the restaurant as ‘Tuscani’ to reinforce our new product launch.”…

True, the fact that the restaurant is presented as if it is named Tuscani is not factually accurate. But I believe that it falls within the realm of artistic license, particularly since the campaign has already used an element of imaginary name-changing.

But wait, it gets even more convoluted:

One final note, dear readers. The New York Times reported that the restaurant Provence was scheduled to close last week and reopen in May under a new name, Hundred Acres. Maybe Pizza Hut could ask the owners to rename it Tuscani — at least long enough for folks to stop by for a pasta dinner.

So basically, the restaurant on TV is a fake makeover of a real NYC restaurant, which is itself now “fake” in the sense that it’s no longer open — but is in the process of getting a real makeover/rebirth.

Throw in the French/Italian/fast food cuisine switcheroos at play here, and my head hurts. On top of that, my stomach’s growling.

Nothing sets off restaurant buzz like an onerous reservation process; and despite egalitarian intentions, that’s what new downtown hotspot Momofuku Ko (literally Japanese for “son of Momofuku”) has:

The only way to land a spot is to log on to Ko’s Web site, create an account, register with a credit card and take a shot at finding an empty space on a bingo-like grid. Seats are released at 10 a.m. everyday for the current seven-day period.

Some have succeeded — even repeatedly — at eating at Ko, with its $85 tasting menu which emphasizes French and Asian cooking. But there are no moments for indecision — you have to click on a green arrow the moment you see it — and luck seems to play a big part.

Why the rigmarole? Aside from the limited space — only 12 counter seats in the whole place — Ko owner David Chang is rabidly against reservation scalpers. Just in case you don’t know that that is, he’s provided a definition.

Frankly, the countertop dining seems more oriented toward foodie enthusiasts than to anyone who actually wants to take a date there. I don’t see enough exclusivity appeal to bother with landing a spot.

Here’s what my grocery shopping consisted of, earlier this morning:

- a bag of potato chips (sweet maui onion flavor, if you must know)
- a box of mashed potato flakes

No potato famine in my house, apparently. It wouldn’t hurt to lay off the spuds, I suppose.

Cute presentation, no? This serving of fried rice was set down in front of a lunch companion yesterday at Chai Restaurant, and I couldn’t resist taking a quick cellphone picture.

I think it’s obvious that the two cucumbers with plum tomatoes, accompanied by wedge of lime, represents a face. That wasn’t apparent to a third lunchmate, who thought the arrangement looked like “boobies”, with no accounting for the lime.

Said lunchmate obviously is swimming against the tide of cognitive human visual language, which allows us to see two dots and a half-moon and interpret the visual representation of a face.

On the other hand, I kinda envy the ability to conjure up images of female breasts. Maybe a cultural re-education is in order — to the extent that our desensitized society hasn’t already done the job.

A friend of mine related the mishap of her live-in boyfriend’s kid sister, who, last night, overdosed on spicy green curry sauce while dining at a Thai restaurant in Jersey City. End result: She was throwing up like crazy this morning in said friend’s bathroom.

Since yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day, I couldn’t help but observe that, well, at least kid sister’s puking was in reaction to something green. I give her props for being unconventional, rather than go with the old-hat green beer. It’s all in the spirit of the holiday!

If you’ve been thinking about going on a diet soon, you now have extra incentive coming from your pocketbook: Food prices at the grocery store are going up at the fastest rates since 2003.

And since it’s hard to do without sustenance, that means other economic sectors will get short-changed:

Escalating food costs could present a greater problem than soaring oil prices for the national economy because the average household spends three times as much for food as for gasoline. Food accounts for about 13 percent of household spending, compared with about 4 percent for gas.

And consumers spending more on food have less disposable income to spend on items that keep retailers happy – from electronics to dining out. Food prices are rising while home values fall and the stock market falters – all of which can shake consumer confidence.

Maybe it’ll turn out cheaper to start eating and drinking petroleum products…

I realize that the term “killer app” has long since strayed from its computer-tech origins as a shorthand for “killer application”, i.e. a gotta-have-it program that ignites usage by a wide audience.

Still, I don’t think I ever before ran across the use of “killer apps” as a descriptor for bar food. But that’s what Applebee’s is calling its new menu of “Ultimate Trios” appetizers in TV commercials.

I don’t have an specific linkable proof of this usage, but I did find this semi-drunken Twitter citation. It’ll have to do as far as corroborating my recollection.

Killer apps, in the form of chicken wings and mini-burgers. Has geek-chic jargon come so far that it’s now effective in mass-market food advertising? Regardless, unique as it is, it’s not the first time the concept of killer appetizers occurred.

A testament to how thoroughly the specialty bottled water market has ingrained itself into consumer habits is this ad campaign from Pepsi arguing that its Propel brand is superior to Coca Cola’s (nee Glaceau’s) Vitaminwater, based on a familiar nutritional measure:

The commercial goes direct for Glaceau’s jugular, pointing out that the “enhanced” product has 100+ calories per bottle, which would require an “extra 492 sit-ups” to burn off. The solution? Propel, which has only 25 calories.

The weird thing? We’re talking about alleged water — which, in its unadulterated form, has zero calories.

So this campaign is basically using caloric intake to tout one water-based beverage over another, without pointing out that you’re better off going with unflavored/unenhanced H2O if you truly want to eliminate the calorie concern.

Yes, I realize that the appeal of these workout waters is that they’re tastier than “plain” water (that, and their handy portability via plastic bottle). Still, it’s weird to me that calorie-counting is being applied to this product category, as if it were just another food. Like I said, it’s a testament to how established this once-niche offering now is on the American consumption menu.

Pictured above is a flyer from the Mariella Pizza on 8th Avenue and 57th. As you can see, they’re pretty proud of the blessing bestowed upon them by Oprah as having the “best pizza in America”.

As well they should be. I’m sure thousands of Oprah acolytes have descended upon the shop in the year since Oprah’s pal Gayle picked the winner. And personally, I stop by this joint at least a couple of times a month, because I like the thick crispy crust.

Here’s what I find curious about this honor. Notice the parenthetical note:

(just a few steps away from her office)

That office would be the Hearst Tower, which I’d admired before. It so happens that O, the Oprah Magazine is published by Hearst Corp., and indeed, the mag’s offices are directly across the street on 8th Avenue.

So you know what I think? I think Gayle was running close to her deadline for this little pizza contest, and looked out the window, saw Mariella’s, and figured, “good enough”. Presto, a winner is located, thanks to location!

I would say I’m disappointed in Oprah’s less-than-exacting competitive qualifications. But what the hell, like I said, it’s still good pizza.

Is it (ko-pen-HAY-gen) or (ko-pen-HAH-gen)?

That’s the conundrum I found myself in today when I chose the latter pronunciation for the capital city of Denmark. The purpose of which was to order a Copenhagen Zesto sandwich at Pax.

I guess I’m in a distinct minority among lunchers in midtown Manhattan, because the order-taker did a double-take and asked me to repeat the name of the sandwich. I did so, then jabbed my finger at the glass to make sure there was no further confusion.

Maybe I should reconsider my choice of long or short vowel for Hans Christian Andersen’s turf. Although maybe not, both because I’ll invoke my first-generation Euro heritage and because I’m hesitant to let a deli-counter jockey dictate my diction.

And to further hint at where my head was at after this encounter, I actually walked away with the Beastie Boys’ “Super Disco Breakin’” reverberating in my mind. Specifically the lyrical snippet, “When I’m in Holland, I eat the pannenkoeken”. Dutch, not Danish, but somehow it felt like a proper coda.

Yes, FDA endorsement of foodstuffs from cloned livestock mirrors shifting public acceptance of eating “frankenfood”.

But I can’t say I’m all that interested in that. What I was really interested in was pouncing on this opportunity for a most apropos headline pun, riffed off Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones.

I feel better now.

Fortune cookies are an after-meal staple in Chinese restaurants across the globe, but culinary sleuthing has found that Japan is the historical birthplace of the paper-bearing treats.

Sushi bars could benefit from a dessert tray consisting of fortune cookies and sake…

A woodcut scene from 1878 is considered the clincher for establishing Japanese origin. As for how they migrated from Japanese cuisine to Chinese, by way of the American melting pot:

Early on, Chinese-owned restaurants discovered the cookies, too. Ms. Nakamachi speculates that Chinese-owned manufacturers began to take over fortune cookie production during World War II, when Japanese bakeries all over the West Coast closed as Japanese-Americans were rounded up and sent to internment camps.

Sadly, none of this shed light on the mystery that is the empty fortune cookie.

If you’re going to spend a bunch of time and money getting drunk in some Brooklyn dive, you might as well make it worth your while:

“There’s more chance I’d use this rewards card than a supermarket loyalty card,” said Colin Cheney, 29, a regular at the Pacific Standard bar on Fourth Ave. in Boerum Hill.

The bar will launch the program, loosely based on frequent flyer plans used by airlines, next month. It’s already printing membership cards.

A catalogue offers dozens of prizes, including food and drink, signature glasses, T-shirts, dates with owners John Rauschenberg, 29, and Jon Stan, 27, and even a tattoo of the bar logo.

“It’s the stuff that’s going to embarrass us that I expect people will be cashing in their points for,” said Rauschenberg, who will write a poem about the customer for 400 points. “I don’t expect to see anybody saving up the 7,000 points needed to fly to California, but I might be wrong.”

Screw all those pissy prizes. I wanna know how many bar-bucks I’d have to spend to win their experimental drinking robot! Or at least to score a guest appearance on his cartoon show.

Does this encourage heavier drinking by patrons? The bar owners argue it doesn’t, and is merely designed to encourage loyalty — i.e., the prospect of accumulating more points will nudge folks to hit Pacific Standard over other drinking-hole options. So people wouldn’t be necessarily drinking any more than they normally would, they’d just be doing more of that drinking at PS.

And that’s generally true. But getting people into the door is only part of goal for any consumer loyalty program. Even if it’s not explicitly pushed, the prospect of getting extra benefits from sticking around will lead to more money being spent, and since it is a bar… It’s no more insidious than having television sets or barroom games set up, but the end result is the same: The idea is to sell more (food and) drink.

No reason to worry, unless someone attempts to drink their way to that 7,000-point trip to California all in one night. Personally, I’d stick to going for the robot prize.

If one is to take to heart the advice of Heather Mills McCartney to save the planet by eschewing livestock-based foods and instead drinking rat’s milk, then I suppose the next logical step is indulging in the resultant byproducts.

To the rescue comes The Federation of Rodent Cheesemakers!

Vomit-inducing concept aside, they may be on to something, especially in their differentiation among different grades of rat-juice:

The Siberian udder-rat produces more milk than any other, while the Himalayan Rex is said to produce the finest quality milk, especially prized by makers of blue rat cheese.

Admittedly, their distribution model could use a little work:

Please note that due to health and safety restrictions this cheese cannot be shipped out. However, we will eat the cheese for you and send you a personalised email describing the entire gastronomic experience in lavish detail.

Actually, having someone else do the actual eating of “my” rat-cheese seems the most ideal recourse. I’m being eco-friendly, and my stomach doesn’t suffer. Score!

Tis the season for turducken!

It is a chicken stuffed inside a duck which is then stuffed inside a turkey. The term turducken comes from the combination of tur(key), duck, and (chick)en. It is fast becoming a popular recipe for Thanksgiving. Each slice contains portions of chicken, duck, and turkey with stuffing in between the layers.

I dunno how “fast” that popularity is spreading. I suggested this unholy trinity of poultry for my familial Thanksgiving, but was quickly shouted down (yes, literally… and no, I’m not being serious). My godbrother is reportedly serving it up, though, so I might have to visit there for some of their leftovers.

The concoction of the name “turducken” is clever enough. But is it the right moniker? A ladyfriend of mine named Angela, upon my informing her of this dish, thought “chuckey” was more appropriate: Reversing the word-meld order of ch(icken), (d)uck, and (turk)ey. In other words, looking at the Frankenbird from the inside-out, instead of the turducken-ed outside-in.

Unfortunately for Angela, I think “turducken” is here to stay. But maybe people can start dubbing their main course with the friendlier “chuckey”, just before commencing the carve.

I’ve seen and partaken of Grown Up Soda, aka GuS a few times. It’s a native New York brew, so it’s all over the place; and, true to its purpose, it does provide a less-sugary alternative to the Cokes and Pepsis of the world.

But it just occurred to me: The name GuS. “Gus” happens to be the Anglicized version of my name, Costa. (Think of the northern European “Gustav/Gustaf” or Iberian “Gustavo”, which are all adaptations of the original Greek “Constantine”.) I’ve never gone by Gus, and aside from a couple of acquaintances of my parents who think they’re doing me a favor by translating my name, no one calls me that. Still, it’s something of a coincidence.

Further, consider the above photo. It’s one that I snapped more than a year ago, and which served as a reminder of the long-gone Costa Sodas from my childhood.

I’d like to think that GuS is the inheritor of that old New York-based beverage company — Costa Sodas, all grown up. I guess that’s not the case; I’d be surprised if the GuS folks had ever even heard of the defunct regional brand. But I’ll run with the fictional lineage, even if it’s significant only to me.

Here’s what I got when I cracked open my lunchtime fortune cookie today:

You are very pretty.

I appreciated the sentiment, but felt it was misplaced. However, I instantly sensed an opportunity.

I took the little slip of paper and headed toward the nearest pretty girl I could see (who happened to be only a few feet away). Then I said:

“Hey, it looks like they gave me your fortune cookie by mistake.”

The look of puzzlement I got from that quickly turned into a smile after I handed her the fortune. Worked like a charm, you could say.

How cheesy would it be to regularly pull this stunt as a pick-up line? You’d need multiple copies of the same fortune-cookie slip, the procurement of which alone would mark you as desperate. Yes, even moreso than using your business card to scam on the ladies.

Now I’m wondering if the Chinese restaurant is complicit in this whole concept. I’m sure I’m not the first guy to think of this repurposing, and then putting the restaurant on the list of “lucky” spots.

Six months after first rolling them out in Southern California, McDonald’s expanded the test market for its new line of premium Angus third-pounder burgers into New York City.

With that, McD’s has been driving hard toward the hoop with the marketing. Television commercials for the monstro-burgers seem to play every two minutes, and yes, that level of saturation is having an effect.

I’m not saying I’m totally sick of all that televised hype. I’m just saying that I hope no one in this most-vital test market starts suggesting that when it comes to hamburgers, the words “Angus” and “anus” are a little too close for comfort.

Along with high-fidelity audiophiles, wine enthusiasts tend to be especially easy marks for all sorts of downright silly niche products.

To wit: The Wine Whisk, or “aroma-therapy for your wine”. It’s the grape-tippling companion for those who can’t spare 20 minutes for their bottle to breath:

The result was the Wine Whisk. This handy little tool allows you to speed up the aeration process by whisking oxygen right into the wine. And the end of the whisk doubles as a bottle stopper!

After imparting frothiness to the wine glass, perhaps the imbiber can use the same Whisk to whip up a Chardonnay-laced omelet…