Pittsburgh Dish

Miss Pitt's Recipe for Success

Miss Pitt--the Burgh's worst-dressed gin-soaked biddy--supports all ventures that involve the creation of booze. Call it her own Intelligent (hic!) Design.

So imagine her glee (OK, glee's pushing it, imagine that she was so tickled that she interrupted her daily poison dart dipping) at the idea of a vodka distillery coming to town. So tickled was she that she put pen to paper (not without the help of ropes and pulleys) and wrote a "guv letter":

Gov. Rendell, dearie, please consider this a formal request for another $165,000 to be drawn from the commonwealth's coffers, this time into Miss P's Experimental Liver Pickling Program (MPELPP). Miss P pledges to spend each and every dime on C. Prentiss Orr Jr.'s potent potato potable. She'll even pledge to name her signature tipple after you.

Witness the Rendell:

Three fingers of Orr's vodka poured into a Penn Ave. pothole infused with the tears of state legislators wailing over their lost pay raises, stirred and strained through a Terrible Towel into Tom Murphy's left running shoe. Garnish with candied chipped ham.

You may substitute Tom Murphy's left running shoe with the chalice belonging to Bob O'Connor's priest son. (But then, you must hum two stanzas of O Danny Boy.)

Signed,

Miss Pitt, unregistered voter since 1938.

Illustration: Craig Gilbert

Sweetheart Acquisition 101

Listen up singles. In another life long, long ago and for a publication far, far away, Miss Pitt (nee Miss B.) scribbled some dating tips for her Dear Reader. After much pondering, mulling, hemming and hawing, Miss P. decided to roll the dice for the sake of love. Copyright laws be damned! She hereby offers her previously published advice on dating. A few months in jail is worth a lifetime of healthy nuzzling.

And besides, she wrote it right?

(Pssst. Single lawyers out there: if Miss P.'s guidance works and you fall in love, how about a little pro bono against the Tribune Company?)

Simply put, Miss Pitt knows how to snatch a fellow, if only for as long as what a quarter will get you in a vibrating bed. Duration aside, her snare tactics are foolproof; at least that's what the carvings in her bedpost read.

So, since Miss Pitt hates to see a girl resort to kissing her best friend's boyfriend under the mistletoe, she'd like to share some of her dating tips with you, Dear Reader. (And for all you furry-legged "wymyn" who might take offense to this, a warning: This will not work for you. Instead, gas up the Dodge Ram and treat yourselves to the new Indigo Girls album.)

That said, let's proceed.

You've cabbed it to a ginmill. Through a cloud of thick smoke you see a man across the bar who looks like Farley Granger. He's drinking whiskey, as every man should. Now what? Do you ask him to buy you a drink? Do you ask the bartender to send over a refill with your phone number on a cocktail napkin?

Since the man should always buy the drink, make your you approach with the top few buttons of your blouse discreetly undone. (If necessary - tear!) And reapply perfume lightly. (The good stuff, not the toilet water you wear to the office.)

If there's a woman sitting next to him, get her out of the way. Tip the bartender to tell her she has a call, then make your move. Do not ask if the seat is taken, simply park it. Strike up a conversation. It's times like these that a gal knows a little about sports and stocks. After some witty banter, *pithy comments and your best Nancy Drew to assure there are no wife and kids, he asks you out for dinner.

Mention a couple of restaurants that are not TGIFridays and the Olive Garden so as to detect his panache and thriftiness. If he seems cheap, abort the mission and go home, change into your fuzzy slippers and regroup. Remember, you're not a free refill gal. You want a guy who owns a tuxedo and who doesn't look at the prices on a menu. A guy who's just gay enough - a man who appreciates Art Pepper but not in the bedroom. A guy who notices your new hairdo but couldn't do the job himself. A guy who can order a screwdriver, and use one.

Most of all, you want a guy who's comfortable holding your purse without commenting on the color.

A few days later he calls. (Would Miss Pitt let you down?) Check caller I.D. to make sure he's not calling from a payphone. Miss Pitt highly suggests that you not say: "It's about time." Show interest but not desperation. (That's what double A batteries are for, honey.) He should ask you where you want to go. Pick a restaurant that's not cheap, yet not a $35 entree place either. Miss Pitt suggests something in the $100 tax-and-tip-included range. Somewhere where you can wear poie de soie slides and he a suit. Somewhere with fewer than three TV's.

Now, this brings up a dicey issue: Does he pick you up or do you meet him there? If his background check has come up clean (Miss Pitt has the resources to discover prison tattoos before agreeing to dinner), then ask him to pick you up. Do not invite him in at first; meet him at the door.

Now fellas, this is your turn to shine. Depending on the restaurant, at the very least present yourself wearing a dry-cleaned all-cotton, single-thread long-sleeved shirt. Wash & vac the interior of your car. No overflowing ashtrays, candy wrappers or Sleater Kinney CDs. You want to give a polished impression, at first. Slip in some Tony Bennett or anything recorded before you were born. Open doors. Don't smoke. Park a couple blocks away so you can stroll after dinner. In short, Miss Pitt suggests you go someplace downtown so as to allow for a romantic walk and an after dinner drink.

Boys, don't be clods: allow the woman to order first. Do not attempt to steer her to lesser priced items. ("Oh, the pasta primavera looks delicious!") Ask her questions so as not to come off as a blowhard. She doesn't want to know your golf score or salary. If she's worth your time she'll steer the conversation back to you. Do not order the house wine. Do not let her pay. If she's insistent, allow her to cover the tip. If not, tip 20-25 percent. Don't double the tax; that went out of fashion with white Zinfandel.

Girls, now the floor is yours. Do not order the most expensive dish. Avoid spinach. Be animated, but not Josephine Baker. Lean in, but not too close. Make sure your breasts do not touch the filet mignon. DANGER: TAKE IT FROM MISS PITT: DO NOT MENTION EX-BOYFRIENDS. Ask questions, like: Have you taken penicillin recently? Have you been to family court? Do you know what accelerated rehabilitation is?

Do not eat candy presented with tab. Instead, offer him a fancy mint from your purse. Suggest an after-dinner drink at a place at least a block away. Avoid A) a bar where you'll run into someone you know (it interrupts the flow and invites uncomfy questions) and B) drinks like Sex on the Beach, Slippery Nipple, Red-Headed Slut. Order a scotch - it's sexy for all genders. The conversation can be more casual. Talk more about yourself, your cats (OK maybe not), a little about your childhood, yet leave out any and all creepy uncle incidents. Cuteness is more acceptable after midnight.

Girls: It's up to you to end the evening. Say, "I've got to get up early" even if you're unemployed. The walk back to the car should be leisurely, even if it's 10 below zero.

Boys: Roxy Music comes in handy now (as, of course, does bay rum).

Gals: If you like him, ask him up. Shut the door behind you and from there, darlings, you're on your own.

*Anita Loos told Earl Wilson that women often stifle their wit because men are intimidated. "When a woman turns out a witty comment, often they respond "Meow Meow," she told Wilson. "But if a man says it, other men consider it brilliant."

Miss Pitt's Dating Rules For Boys

 

Call.

Always pay.

A gentleman always lights his sweetie's cigarette first, except if using matches (it's a sulfur thing).

A gentleman does not order for a gal - it's pompous.

Buy gifts for no reason.

If your date says she likes something, make a mental note.

Know her shoe size.

Always have cash on hand - twenties, not fifties (too flashy).

Remember dates - first dates, first meeting, first kiss.

Know how to open a wine bottle.

If you're going bald, admit it. Keep your hair short.

No concert or wrestling T-shirts.

Always have toilet paper - preferably Cottonelle.

The bathroom should look like you live with your mother.

Do not live with mother, unless you're a Kennedy.

Tools - own them, use them.

Miss Pitt's Dating Rules For Girls

 

Never put out on the first date or there'll never be a second.

Books/ Authors to Have on the Shelf

 

Mickey Spillane

Damon Runyon

Pete Hamill

Hemingway

F. Scott

Jacqueline Susann

The Boston Bartender's Guide

Music to Put on the Hi-fi Should There be a Third Date

 

Bill Evans

1954-65 Sinatra

Ahmad Jamal

Miles Davis

Jerry Butler

Al Green

Bobby "Blue" Bland

Tyrone Davis

Sarah, Billie, Ella

June Christy

The Intruders

Movies on Tape (or DVD) to Have on Display

 

Sabrina

To Have and Have Not

Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid

The Graduate

The Pajama Game

The Desk Set

Sixteen Candles

Harry & Tonto

Bells Are Ringing

My Man Godfrey

Helpful Hints for Guys: Internet resources for first dates and beyond.

www.theartofshaving.com: No respectable man uses an electric razor.

www.lavenderfarm.com: Instead of flowers, bring her a box of just-picked lavender from a California farm. It comes wrapped in pretty paper.

www.eluxury.com: The place to buy Diptyque candles, the most luxurious candles on the market.

www.murphybed.com: Since 1900, the perfect bachelor bed.

www.steamertrunkmerchants.com: Vintage travel lithographs for the man who has outgrown Lakers posters.

--Miss Pitt.

Shuttle cock

Miss P never misses a chance to piddle on Yale. Not even 500 miles will stop her from lifting one leg and, like a good little feline, spraying on that bastion of higher education.

Now, she has nothing against Yalies in general. Well, except for those who disobeyed walk signs and drifted out in front of moving cars (future world leaders are above such inconveniences). Oh, and those students who rode their bikes on sidewalks then whined about motorists being the law breakers (you see, Dearies, they save the environment and non-cyclists are eco-terrorists. Even the physically disabled don't get a pass). Oh, right, and those secret society wankers who blanket Big Business and are slowly transforming "alternative" newspapers into Yale alumni magazines (despite once representing all that was evil as regarded by the alt movement). OK, Yalies are flies in Miss P's pee soup. Personal bias? You betcha.

Her rancor came rushing back in the time it takes Miss P to convert chemistry club fellows into cabana boys.

Miss P's ill-wind blew east toward New Haven caused by a split-second flashback on Forbes Avenue in Oakland. She was behind the wheel of her Nash, driving down Pitt's academic artery, when Miss P spotted a shiny Carnegie Mellon shuttle for the very first time (remember she's new in town). Now granted, maybe this was an exception, but Miss P couldn't help but notice the shuttle was post-Carter administration and, well, courteous. And it had a flashing light on the roof. She rubbed her bloodshot eyes thinking it was a mirage.

You see, Miss P's experience with Yale shuttles was quite different.

Many of their shuttles were raggedy old school buses repainted lilly white and boola blue. Several townies encountered near-miss collisions and driver lunacy. It was theorized by locals that the standard for hiring Yale drivers was a minimum of at least four DUI convictions and a taste for Mad Dog 20/20.

Perhaps tomorrow Miss P will be rear-ended by a Mellon shuttle. But for the next 24 hours she's tickled pink to see The House That Privilege Built knocked down a peg or two.

Yale bus photo: Eric Seymour for Yale Daily News.

Place Your Bets

Who will replace Sandy Day O'Connor? Miss P. Thinks she knows. ...

In a previous life, Miss P. went by another consonant, Miss B. Miss B was a mouthy gutter lush with a lust for spirited scandal and was a thorn in the side of New Haven, Conn., politicos, powers-that-be and anyone else who stood between her and a highball. At the end of her "career," she staged her death, paid off the mourners, stocked her traveling bar and headed for The Iron City. Miss B hit the shores of the North Side, shook off the dirt from Potters Field and presto, Miss P was born. You lucky devils.

Miss P's previous life was to remain forever cloaked in mystery, however in the wake of today's juicy judicial events (OK juicy's a stretch), she feels she must throw down her own political predictions alongside the "real" journalists and Washington heavyweight watchers. You see, Miss B having drank, er consulted, with insiders from Sen. Joseph Lieberman's (D-Conn.) camp (remember he ran for Prez?), Miss B/P predicted back in 2004 that Mr. Lieberman might find himself presiding over something more than his wussie stand against video game violence:

First, Mr. Lieberman, I see a long black robe in your future. You are sitting on a high bench, alongside eight others dressed in long, black robes. It seems you have been appointed a Supreme Court justice in the wake of Justice Sandra Day-O'Connor's retirement. You see, removing you from the Senate and having [Conn. Governor] Jodi Rell in charge of naming a replacement will all but guarantee that your seat would be filled by a Republican. It's a political bone thrown to you by President Bush, and you will take it. It's win-win for Bush.

So there you have it Dishers. Remember you heard it here first. Miss P's always been fairly lucky at making book (and bookmakers). And if her theory doesn't hold water, oh well, there's always vodka (and those bores at the Nation).

Illustration of Miss B. by Craig Gilbert.

Photo: Lieberman on right-wing Christian TV in 2003.

Cheaper by the Dozen

So Miss P hears basketball star Michael Jordan was spotted at Dejavu Lounge And Restaurant (2106 Penn Avenue 412-434-1144) last weekend. It figures. Miss P and The Hags were elsewhere getting potted. Their recent encounter at The Strip club was less of a slam drunk. But they did spot some men behaving baldly.

For the three slatterns found themselves seated in the open-air area of the godawful, er, hip establishment. After imbibing several watered down drinks and pitiful appetizers, Miss P, Veda and Hazel noticed two men in their early-60s park their pasty cheeks and purchased hair at a nearby table. The gals were hardly interested in Manny & Moe, for they were not very handsome (unless you consider Buddy Ebsen a heartthrob). Soon a couple young girls, (old enough to vote anyway) joined the Members Only duo. Minutes later two more. Then three more. Miss P & Co. counted at least 12 women surrounding these two pinky-ringed porkers.

Were these fellows steel magnates? Judging from their attire, no. Well endowed? No yard stick in the world could mask these fellows' mugs, honey. What was the reason behind Manny & Moe's success at attracting so much, well, tail?

With one glance of their skin-tight no-natural-fabric-in-sight outfits, Hags Un, Deux, Trois unraveled the mystery. It was decided. The boys purchased a piece of Pi Beta Phi with Mastercard or Visa. For $5,000, the boys ordered a little Greek salad for the night.

Hopefully for them, their lady fingers were better tasting then Miss P's party's chicken fingers.

P.S. Click on Dejavu's link.

Have You Seen?

At one of the bigger New York cocktail parties the host may invite five hundred guests --and only a thousand of them can make it.

--- Earl Wilson, 1946

Miss Pitt heard the debut of the Post-Gazette's Seen magazine as it landed on her stoop Monday morning.

You see it wasn't her paperboy's poor aim or careless abandonment of his employer's editorials to blame for the thwack of papyrus to pavement. The early morning racket was, in fact, caused by the crush of the flush--be it the fracas of filthy lucre, the patter of Pittsburgh's pecunious or the back-fire of hats the size of Buicks.

Seen's editors did not cut corners on the upper crust. The Iron City's bon vivants were covered from stem to societal stern. From the garish interiors of the Designers' Showhouse in Highland Park to interior decorator Louis Talotta's ho hum second home in Palm Beach, no fancy dress party went uncovered. Seen also saw fit to add a humanitarian edge--you see Talotta bought the servants uniforms for them.

Most of Seen's content was unambiguous. You had the local Astors and Bloomingdales cloaked in silk and self-tanning lotions and debutantes fresh out of How To Eat A Ladyfinger class. But Miss Pitt found the "Social Register" puzzling. It's a listing of upcoming benefits and events. Last time Miss Pitt checked, a social register is "a directory listing persons of social prominence in a community." You know, a listing of Mayflower madams and anyone related to anyone who ever donned a buckled shoe. Also baffling was the cover image and tagline "A Fresh Approach!" which seemed more suited for a feminine hygiene ad than, quite frankly, anything else.

Truth be told, though, Seen magazine is far from obscene as regards its reportage on the clod hoppers of the polo pony set. Rather, it doubtless provides the requisite roll call of Those Who Are Better Than You that allows us readers to separate the social wheat from the yinzer chaff. After all, only subscribers are privileged to set eyes on Seen. The rest of PG's riff-raff must swipe it off a neighbor's porch.

The good lord knows no good deed -- whether giving a paw up to impounded critters or a couple of quid to the equestrian set -- that goes unreported is worth much, especially when the cost of those fabulous hats, fantastic frocks, bodacious baubles and custom-cut suits is deducted.

Dish on Dish (and your little dog, too)

Hazel, Veda and Miss Pitt snuggled into a corner table of Dish Osteria and Bar, 128 S. 17th St., Pittsburgh, 412-390-2012, a cozy Italian bistro nestled in the side streets of the South Side. The drink special? A $6 Appletini. Veda very sheepishly ordered This Abomination To All That Is Holy Water as she feared a tenacious tisk-tisk from Miss P who believes no genuine cocktail was invented after the Harvey Wallbanger.

Hazel, longing for a long lost longshoreman named Lonnie, ordered a rum and coke. Miss P ordered a gimlet, up.

Little did theTribunal du Trash know, the evening had a theme.

Veda, predictable puss that she is, ordered carpaccio, presented on a pile of arugula and thick slices of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. She was delighted but Miss P detected the dear girl was a bit more in love with the carpaccio at Eleven. Hazel, in a foul mood that evening (her skirts were atwist over two office twits) ordered a pasta special, involving a simple plum tomato sauce, eggplant, and a lovely mild Italian cheese. She shut her yap for 20 minutes which, in Hazel parlance, translates to "yummy." Miss P, not one for victuals, proceeded to get potted.

Dish lives up to its name. Read on.

While employing the use of sleeves for napkins, the Witches of Eastwick couldn't help but notice a couple (hetero, blah) standing about as if waiting for a bus. The gal was holding one of those gawd-awful "I'm getting married I need this" wedding organizers. Honey, hate to break it to you, but an 89-cent notebook from Giant Eagle works just as well. Oh, but then you couldn't hold it in your left hand to display the quarter carat which henpecked fiancée Harry financed with a couple of car payments. ...

Later that evening, skipping-to-their-loo down Carson Street, the Hags Un, Deux, Trois couldn't help noticing yet another bridal-related disaster--a window display catering to the slutty bride, her filthpig bridesmaids and her nincompoop groom. Honey, if you need a thong emblazoned with "Bride" in rhinestones then you ought to have your other head examined. (Pssssst: It's that buoyant blob north of the hickies.)

Poor Dear

There they go again, those poor unfortunates at the City Paper. According to David Ryder's opus, "Pittsburgh Sucks for 40-Something Singles" (May 12) this ill-fated Knave of Hearts shall never meet the woman of his dreams in Pittsburgh lest she be a woman of advanced age or, heaven forefend, a smoker. Bars are too smoky, clubs are too loud, dance classes are filled with one too many feet in the grave. Mr. Ryder shares with his Dear Reader 695 words and with every syllable he decries the lack of passion fruits for his plucking in all of Pittsburgh.

Dearie, take some advice from Miss Pitt who has seen more action than one woman should in the back of a Dusenburg: Since women are not about to show up at your house to audition, pour yourself an "Oh Nurse!" and for God's sake take up smoking.  --Miss P