Dressed to Kill, photo John French. London, UK, 1963

I used to have a beautiful apartment with a long staircase in a lovely brownstone in Manhattan. I also had a cookbook publishing and packaging company there.

One day I invited an old friend, Peter Kump, for lunch. At the time, he was running a cooking school in the neighborhood, that he eventually turned into the Institute of Culinary Education (ICE).

As we were chatting, a thin trickle of blood peeped shyly from his nose. I didn’t comment. (I am British. British people do not comment.)

“Peter,” I said, calmly, “Let’s adjourn to the living room. Here, lie down and put your feet up.” Peter held the wad of bloodied paper to his face as I toyed with the idea of dialing 911 to scream for medical attention.

The doorbell rang. Who could this be? Excusing myself, I went down the stairs and answered the door.

A very tall young woman stood before me. Masses of hair. Thick fur coat. Crimson lips. Stiletto heels. Instantly I hate her.

“I’ve come for the interview,” she states. Hmmm. She thinks I forgot about the interview. She’s right. I did.

“Ah,” says I. “Do come in. I’m delighted to see you.” (Note: time-perfected British method of extreme put down by employing use of charming greeting in direct contrast to applicant’s curt statement of fact.)

Woman walks up stairs. Enters living room. Stops abruptly. Stares at Peter on the couch.

“This is Peter,” I say. “I’ve just shot him. Would you please help me throw him out of the window?”

“I just came for the interview,” she responds, restating her previous purpose.

“Well,” I retort. “If you are not prepared to pitch in, I’m afraid there isn’t a job for you here. May I show you the way to the door?”

Woman exits. She has spoken exactly 11 words (five of them twice). Peter roars with laughter. Bleeding has stopped. Lunch resumes at the dining table.

This is actually a true story though I blush to tell it as it seems so heartless in retrospect. I never crossed paths with this young woman again. Occasionally I wonder if she interpreted the entire scene differently.

There is a point to this story. As soon as I’d met her, I’d made up my mind I was not going to hire this woman. Other employers possibly would think the same way so:

• Interview Tip #1: Be aware that first impressions happen literally in the blink of an eye. If you don’t believe me, read the excellent Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking by Malcolm Gladwell. As one Amazon reviewer, Michael Erisman, noted, “the book centers on the concept of how fast we really do make judgments, called “thin slicing,” and how deeper analysis can sometimes provide less information than more. It is all about cognitive speed.”
• Interview Tip #2: Smile. Say, “Good Afternoon.” Provide your name and don’t wear a fur coat to an interview.

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D’you remember that thing Anthelme Brillat-Savarin said, “Tell me what you eat and I’ll tell you what you are?” I mention this because I’ve been thinking about the reasons the candidates running for high political office seem to feel it necessary to eat what the locals eat. I suppose it’s a way of establishing solidarity.

If the Republicans or Democrats travel to Buffalo, they feel it is necessary to make a big deal about eating a wing. They become “ein Buffalo-er” which is the next best thing to being ein Berliner or “We are all Georgians” (or Philadelphians) if we gather together to eat a cheese steak. It’s the same deal when we declare our brotherhood by eating a hot pastrami sandwich or a taco.

It’s odd that desserts don’t carry any weight in this public display of chewing.

Arugula it seems is fodder only for egg-headed extremists or the Queen of England. President W. served a salad of arugula, Savannah Mustard and mint romaine champagne dressing and trio of farmhouse cheeses to Her Royal Highness at a State Dinner. No mention of ranch dressing.

JFK and Jackie O. received high marks for their elegant state dinners. That was then, though. Eat French food now and the other side will make a mockery of you. You might as well throw in the towel (after wind-surfing of course).

But, toss down a couple of belts of hard liquor and the world applauds. There’s nothing like beer to solidify a politician’s credentials. Wine is another thing altogether. (Chardonnay has become a metaphor for the effete.)

We don’t hesitate to scoff at certain foods: grits, for example, unless votes are being courted below the Mason-Dixon line. Clams, fried or chowdered, are O.K. Down East, and planked salmon is super in Seattle, but generally speaking roast meat defines character more emphatically than fish.

Food is power. Even tiny infants know how to get their mom riled up by refusing food. And two can play this game because food can be withheld or bestowed as a reward. Amongst nations, who is fed and who go hungry depends far more on who is seated in the legislature than how many are seated around the table.

If I was a presidential adviser I’d suggest steering away from any cheese except Velveeta or when in Wisconsin. You are pretty safe if you can eat whatever is offered to eat with your hands, or if worst comes to worst, a plastic fork is sometimes allowed (or forgiven). French is O.K. only when it pertains to fries, and fried is probably the best bet for everything else, especially chicken. KFC, also known as Poulet Frit du Kentucky, is wildly popular throughout the world, or many parts of the world. Forget about quiche.

No matter what our physical surroundings or our religious and cultural beliefs we all have many things in common. We all experience the emotions of fear and, occasionally, courage; rage and repentance; love and hate; sorrow and joy. And everywhere, throughout every part of the world, we gather together to eat and drink at the end of the day. It is this sharing of food that defines us as a family and unites us as members of the family of man.

It is the willingness to share our food that unites us as a community and defines a philosophy of civilized people. Food is the common thread that unites us all. It is love made tangible. So – note to political operatives – bring on the arugula and the fries and the BBQ and the beating heart of a cobra (if Anthony Bourdain is coming for supper), and try to find ways to unite instead of divide us by mocking food preferences and sacred customs and beliefs.

In his book, My Own Story, Luciano Pavarotti noted, “One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.” I’ll drink to that…make mine iced tea please.

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