Three things found while Googling Charlie Ayers, author of the new cookbook Food 2.0: Secrets from the Chef Who Fed Google (DK, $25):
*An interview with the Scotsman in which Ayers describes a 10-course tasting menu at Ken Oringerâs Clio as the best meal of his life: âIt included a liquid Parmesan ravioli, which was like eating Parmesan-scented air. It was out of this world.â
*A blog entry by a slightly dotty amateur chef that uses 25 photographs, including a picture of what two tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce looks like, to show how to make Ayersâs Google Hot Sauce.



No surprise that local pit-master
Italian food, for me, is a bit like the visiting the MFA: I have a sense of its vastness, its variety, butâtime after timeâI trundle along the same route, past the big-name American and European masters, and end up standing in front of Isabella and the Pot of Basil. Again. Like most people, I need someone to show me what I’m missing. In short, I need a guide.
There was a time when I considered driving tours little more than field trips for grownupsâwho, presumably, should have worthier, more-grownup things to do. That outlook was bred from my growing up in the heart of Kentucky’s bluegrass country: Blessed with both legendary horse farms and notorious bourbon distilleries, its back roads play host to an ant-line of tourists who keep slowing down to either ogle a few million dollars on the hoof or simply let the boozy vapors of the car’s occupants dissipate a bit, or both. It’s hard to grasp the allure of such pilgrimages when you’ve been jaded by grade-school outings to Wild Turkey and Maker’s Mark. (Possibly the racetrack, too.)
There’s a new book for food lovers in stores this month, and one well worth finding. Rebecca Gray‘s American Artisanal (Rizzoli, $26.95, 258 pages) is a modest-looking thing: a small hardback with a dun-colored, matte cover of recycled paper, ornamented with a woodcut-style image of an apple. Like the food it honors, it’s light on packaging and fillers, and big on satisfying content.
To the despair of friends who feel it’s uncivilized to take Sunday brunch before 2 p.m., I have in recent years become a die-hard morning person. So when a new pocket-sized guide to Boston breakfast spots came across my desk this week, I was on it like date butter on banana-stuffed French toast.







