Salt

It's been hot in Saint Plotniko. Maybe as high as 80. At noon. On the concrete. Oh, boy, that's tough.

Still, for the first time since moving to The City The Sun Forgot in 1993, The Great Plotnik has worn shorts two days in a row. And when it's hot in The Meatball Kitchen, The Great Ducknik wants tuna fish and potato chips.

She does make a mean plate o' tuna. But since the last time it got hot in this fogbound burg, the Plotniks' taste has changed. Last night, both Plot and Duck found these once-beloved Kettle sea salt and vinegar potato chips to be so salty as to be basically inedible. This is something that happens frequently, especially in restaurants. The prevailing salt threshold appears to be far higher than it used to be.

Salt. Oh, yah, English Maldon salt and French sea salt harvested by Pierre in Normandy wearing rubber boots, yah, yah. It's the Emperor's New Clothes, 2006 Condiments Edition. It's the punch line to the old Mel Brooks joke: "Boy! Could dot guy sell SALT!"

What ever happened to salting your own food? It has something to do with large portions -- a restaurant can't justify charging $11.95 for an omelette if it isn't huge enough to fatten the slob that's devouring it, and he/she won't order it if it's not salty enough to disguise the fact that they used eggs from Pakistan and imitation cheese.

Whenever Plotnik's grandmother, the Late Great Grammy Plotnik, happened to upturn the salt shaker, whe would spit over her shoulder three times ptaa! ptaa!! ptaa!!! to ward off the Evil Eye. That's because to a Russian immigrant, salt had great value. It was to be used sparingly.

She also made great fried chicken. Perhaps Chef Pickle-nik can explain how an old woman from Odessa, Ukraine, came to make great Southern Fried Chicken? Yum, it was good. Come to think of it, it was pretty salty.