Annie's New York Eats

Tales from the Health Insurance Vaults

If you have any question in your mind about whether or not Congress should pass President Obama's Health Care Reform Act, here's one more story which might help you decide.

In 2003, we were employed by United Healthcare, which is a health insurer like Blue Cross and Blue Shield. Our job was answering phones and, with the help of a computer program, telling people what was and was not covered by their insurance.

In one way this was a pretty simple job, because an individual was either covered for, say, rhinoplasty (a nose job), or he or she was not. But, if you've ever had health insurance, you know that a lot of coverage is left open to interpretation. Do you need that rhinoplasty because you can't breathe through your nose, and you live your life in fear that someone will yell "Stick 'em up" and tie  a gag across your mouth? Or do you merely wish to stop resembling a German Shepherd when you turn profile?

Traditionally, the insurance company will make the decision about allowing you to have this surgery based upon "medical necessity". Hint: try to wheeze and gasp as you discuss the matter with your Health Care Representative--who, was, briefly, us.

People, especially those in a union or who have their health insurance as part of a union-negotiated pension package, tend to think of their policy as being the only policy which the insurer provides. "Oh, you've got United Health?" someone will say. "It's pretty scanty. I prefer Blue Cross/Blue Shield." 

The fact is, however, that every insurer has hundreds, maybe thousands of different policies, and your employer has bought the cheapest one possible to cover you and your family. The way our health care is set up nowadays, with the employer taking the fall, you could hardly blame them for doing it that way.

Another difference among policies is in the way they are administered. "Administered", in this case, means "interpreted". This is exactly like the way one Rabbi can read the Old Testament and deduce that women must wear their hair and limbs covered in front of anyone not their husband, and another Rabbi can read that same Old Testament and find that it is entirely permissable for a lesbian Rabbi to date her Cantor.

When we were at United Healthcare, UH was "administering" a certain Blue Cross/Blue Shield policy the members of which were pensioners of the Verizon Company. 

These people had a median age of 82 and many of them would have had no idea what you meant by "Verizon" because as far as they were concerned they had worked for The Bell System. The men had been the original engineers and linesmen who assembled our nationwide telephone system. The ladies had been the original switchboard operators. (One plan member told me that she had demonstrated the first plug-in switchboard during the early 1920's.)

These people had been in retirement, some of them, for thirty years. They were in no way suited to telephonic warfare of the modern age. But the Blue Cross/Blue Shield policy won by their Union had been satisfactory over the years, and they were, on the whole, comfortable with it.

Not so Verizon. This was years before the current economic recession, but the corporation had decided that they were losing money, or perhaps were not making enough, on the old pension package to their foundation-level employees.

Verizon brought United Healthcare in to administer. And what that really meant was that, in every interpretation, we were to come down on the negative side. No, you can't have this, no, I don't care how much you need it. No, that is not covered.

When questioned, we were supposed to say, "This is the decision which your employer has made for you. You can, if you like, speak to them."

One day a 94-year-old woman called. She had a very bad hip and was in constant pain.

I told her that a complete hip replacement was covered, if she used certain doctors at certain hospitals, but she interrupted me and said that all doctors had told her that her heart was too weak to withstand the anesthesia needed for the operation.

She simply could not have her hip replaced, and yet she was in constant pain. But she had found a solution: acupuncture, three times a week, allowed her to live her life without too much pain, and without the crippling haze brought on by heavy painkillers.

The last time she had gone to her acupuncturist, her insurance had been turned down. Acupuncture was not covered by Medicare, and she lived on a very limited income and could not afford to pay for her treatments out of pocket.

Why had her insurance suddenly been rejected? Because, under United Healthcare's administration, her policy was now interpreted to not cover acupuncture.

We can remember that lady's sobs, and her helplessness, to this day. We can't remember what we told her to do.

We hope we advised to speak to her doctor, her children, any person she trusted, about how to fight this. We knew for a fact that United Healthcare would actually allow anything from a rhinoplasty to a heart transplant if you complained enough so that they would rather shut you up than fight with you. 

(Incidentally, we think this still holds true of most policies with most insurers. This means that you or the people you love can play a game called "wear down the insurer" before the patient dies or goes mad from pain. This is also known as a very dysfunctional way to run a business.

You might not find this story very affecting. We think you might be saying to yourself, "Oh yeah, something much worse happened to my Grandma or Mom" or whoever. It's part of life, isn't it--fighting with a for-profit corporation which will lose money on whatever it gives you, and thus, wishes to give you? And the horror stories, are they "just what happens"?

Under Health Care Reform, they will not be. That's all there is to it. The whole terrible adversarial system will be over.

We are grateful even for the hope of such an outcome.

Department of Inter-City Communications

The San Franciscan asks: "Where'd you eat?"

The Los Angelan asks: "Who was there?"

The Chicagan asks: "Who're you with?"

The New Yorker asks: "Whaddaya lookin' at?"

 

"Shay, girlie, 'nother round of sunflower seeds (hic!)" or, Elementary Morality for the Serving Class

Hannah Raskin, the veteran waitress and writer, writes in today's Slashfood.com that she sometimes questions her own responsibility as a server.

"When should the server say no?" she wonders, and illustrates as follows:

"...I once served a woman who was so obese that we had to scrounge up an armless chair for her. She ordered a salad, which seemed like a worthy stab at healthy eating habits. But she then asked me to add bacon. And blue cheese crumbles. And three sides of ranch dressing. Serving her the fat-laden dish felt about as thoughtful as shooting heroin into the arm of a junkie too weak to do it himself."

Yes. Well. First off, about that chair. We happen to have nerves of steel, so we don't mind asking anyone, anywhere, for a larger chair, or a chair instead of a booth, or whatever we need (within reason) to feel more comfortable. We have never had any trouble finding such a chair. And we feel that, since we are not (by far) even the fattest person we have seen today, that the problem is with chairs rather than with the people who sit in them.

Second, to answer Ms. Raskin's serious question (and to ignore those little winces which we can't avoid upon reading words like "worthy" and "fat-laden" and "junkie"): No, of course it isn't the server's responsibility (or business) to "cut off" the customer who, in the server's opinion, has ordered inappropriately.

Reasons? First of all, you can't compare alcohol consumption to food consumption. Enough alcohol will IMMEDIATELY make almost anyone drive like a fool, and/or become belligerent, and/or become vulnerable to theft or attack or exploitation. 

Enough food might do the same amount of damage, but not IMMEDIATELY. And, while it can be legally proved that those last five martinis at Joe's led to John Smith wrapping his car around a tree on the way home, it cannot be legally proved that those last two pork chops at The Artisan Sow led to Bill Smith's coronary two years later.

So of course servers and restaurants are not legally responsible to cut customers off. How about morally?Not, not that either. A moral decision is deeply personal; to make sure that the "moral" person is making a fair judgment of the behavior, that person must know all of the objective facts. And one thing Raskin did not know, in serving her obese customer, was whether or not the lady was on Atkins. In which case, Raskin should only have been allowed to limit the customer's croutons.

(If you are nodding your approval of the last sentence, please stop. NOW.) 

To sum the thing up: a server is supposed to be, above all things, polite (unless you are one of those people who thinks a rude waiter equals a good meal, which is something you should only think once you are in the grip of a bad waiter and cannot get away). Making an ignorant value judgment on another person's choice is, above all things, extremely rude. So don't do it.

Glad we could help.

A True New Yorker

We would like to make the point here that we are a pretty normal person.

Others may doubt this, but we will prove it by saying that, just after a yellow cab going 30 miles per hour made contact with our left knee and we went flying into the ambient air above 6th aenue, we found ourselves think Well, this is going to put a hell of a crimp in the day's schedule.

And, by God, we could not have been more right.

You know how it is. You have a day without any appointments, and you don't have to show up at your place of work. Therefor you make a little schedule in your head: a few hours of work at the library, a few more re-writing that important memo for Mr. Renfrew at the Gobstopper Corporation, and then a quick trip over to Verizon to buy a new phone. 

Well, the new phone was in our pocket and we were trotting along wondering if Papyrus would have business card stock or was it all stationary, and how many people used stationary these days anyway, when we came to the intersection of 6th avenue and 20th street, and, having the light with us, we cross the avenue.

A cab began turning out of 20th street, as they so often will. We sped up a little because you never can tell.

Unfortunately, so did the cab.

And the next thing was that thought about our schedule, about how this was something serious, this wasn't just ducking out of the way at the last minute or something to tell as a story; this was serious. 

***********************************************************************************************

We realized this once we had hit the pavement on our back, rolled over onto our side, and lifted ourself up on our elbow to bellow at the cabbie You hold it right there, you stupid son of a bitch, you're going to give me all your insurance information and...

No, no, is for police, you tell police, I no stay here, I have passenger! yelled the cabbie, as if that made sense, and we were about to respond when another voice rang out:

Stay where you are! Don't move!! And a kind-looking lady of about our age moved out of the crowd at the corner and put her bag under our head. In New York terms this was such an overwhelming gesture of self-sacrifice than we actually started crying. Also we were beginning to get the first pain messages from our lower limbs.

Don't move. Don't move. Oh don't cry! Don't worry! We're getting this guy's information! We're getting a cop!

Don't let him get away, we said. He's gonna try to get away. Don't let him. then, in an undertone. I don't have health insurance.

Who does? But don't you worry. This is a no-fault state. It's all on the cabbie.

Was it my fault? Did you see?

It was him. We all saw. We're telling the cop.

Thank God. Thank you.

It wasn't that we couldn't move our head. Our left leg was a mess but we already knew our neck was okay, our pelvis, our spine. We've always had a horror of paralysis, nerve damage. We couldn't quite believe how confident we were in our own wholeness, but it did seem like we were okay.

Okay sweetheart, how you doin? What's your name? How old are you? We're gonna put the collar on you, okay? And here's the backboard. Okay, we're gonna move you. And...over...

The collar is every bit as uncomfortable as you might think. We say My stuff? My bag? Little leather bag? Please? and someone finds it and puts it in our hand. Now somehow we feel connected again, switched on, part of the pulse. We're pretty sure we'll walk out of this and that we can identify ourself and pay for a cab home. We are not comforted yet but we can see the next few hours and it seems okay.

We say, Are you the EMTs and someone says No Ma'am, FDNY and we say too bad, you're all probably so cute and we can't even see you! and it gets the usual laugh. We still can't see anything but sky out of our left eye and pavement out of our right. It is amazingly clean, for being in the middle of Sixth Avenue. 

At one point we think we feel hot air ruffling the crown of our head and a few voices bellowing at each other: Naw, she can't move! She's bin in a accident can't you see that ya damn fool? Naw, she can't get out of your goddam way you got to goddam drive around her jerk can't you see? Oh yeah, well back atcha dumbell, what you think!

It is the good old lullaby of the city and we begin to wonder what John Dos Passos would have done in our place.

Then we remember that the city was a much harder place in our youth. Our Dad always felt that if you got hit by a cab in the middle of the city it was your own damn fault and the passersby were allowed to pick over your remains and get what they could from you, which would eventually include assorted acts of necrophilia. Our Dad was sometimes a very depressing guy.

Then there are a bunch more rough voices and someone says Ma'am? Where were you hit? and we say Sixth Avenue and Twentieth Street and we giggle a little and pass out.

Quote of the Day

"I don’t think any day is worth living without thinking about what you’re going to eat next at all times.".--Nora Ephron

Which New York Foodies Have the Power?

This has become a matter for debate since the incumbent New York Times restaurant reviewer, Frank Bruni, has stepped down from the post and been replaced by another Times writer, Sam Sifter.

Bruni, and most of his predecessors for the past 35 years, have disguised themselves when on the reviewing prowl; Sifter's picture was readily available and featured in almost every published discussion of his new job, and the idea is that he will not now be able to review incognito, and that this will significantly diminish his power to make or break a new restaurant.

In our opinion, Sifton will not have the power of a Claiborne, Grimes, Reichl, Sheraton or Bruni, but it's not because restaurant people will recognize him and send out their best plate of something-or-other, and he'll be dumb enough to grade the restaurant on just that one dish. (He has eyes, doesn't he? And a nose? Unless they put Sifton in a private room, he'll be able to see what's going on around him).

Mr. Sifton will find his power muted because there are simply so dang many critical voices clanging around him.

If the everyday intertubes reader wants to figure out a place to take his light o' love and her out-of-town parents for a dinner to celebrate her Mom's recent recovery from diverticulitis, he has a lot of different opinions to read. And these are:

--grassroots bloggers such as ourself, 

--larger and company sponsored blogs such as Grub Street, The Feedbag, Eater, Serious Eats (which incorporates many blogs): 

--newspaper and magazine-based blogs and reviews,

--reader-written but professionally-edited sites like Yelp and Zagat, 

--well-known, independent blogs with a distinctly personal point of view, like those of Tony Bourdain, Regina Schrambling, Robyn Lee, Adam Roberts, Michael Ruhlman and, we don't know, name your five favorites here. 

--Not to mention Ruth Reichl's tweets, excellently written and almost always mouth-watering.

Is this bad for the foodies--who we define as "people who still have enough money to choose what they eat, and where"? 

No. We are looking for value (entertainment, nutritional, or social) in everything from the In-and-Out Burger to El Bulli's perfumed haunch of venison with sous-vide hominy grits, and, since we cannot eat (or read) everything our own selves, we need a lot of informative voices.

You will, however, have to rely on your own common sense to figure out where to eat. And that will be difficult, if you are anything like our parents, who would have eaten pickled ambergris by the moonlight in Red Hook, Brooklyn if Mimi Sheraton had told them to. And boasted about it afterward, which was kind of the point.

Be guided by reviews that say more than "THIS PLACE SUX." Be aware that restaurateurs have been known to send in ten or eighteen favorable reviews to Yelp (under different names, of course) and learn to recognize a "shill" when you see one. Respect a knowledgeable review, but rely on ones you can actually understand. Don't take anyone's word about a certain place being all hot and popular, because the hot and popular people have already seen that review this afternoon and they won't be coming back.

And finally, here are some of the opinions which makes us feel as if we have Times-like power.

--Some food writers are friends or enemies with the chefs and restaurateurs and even magazine editors around town. Such a one is Josh Ozersky of The Feedbag, who is something like a modern-day Walter Winchell. He's in it for the power and the meat and the hot chicks and the freshest gossip. He won't tout you on to a bad restaurant, but he might not tell you about all the good ones. And good golly, does that fellow have a capacity! Rabelais and the gang had nothing on him.

--We have a hard time trusting anyone who never gives Tom Collichio or Danny Meyer a bad review. These guys cover the New York food scene like some kind of impermeable glaze. They do not do everything right, and an honest reviewer notes this.

--Tony Bourdain uses his intelligence and talent and awesome food knowledge at least partially to fuel his snarking-hipster persona. Don't take his rants seriously. He'd be more reasonable, but that only pays minimum wage. (Dino to Frank: "I tried being sober, Dag, and all I could get was construction work.")

--Anyone who was ever young and broke and in love with food should read Robyn Lee's blog. 

--Anyone who loves his mother more than anything else in the world should read Adam Robert's.

--Anyone who believes that discipline produces genius should read Michael Ruhlman's blog.

--And anyone who needs to learn how to love life should read Ruth Reichl's tweets.

August Holidays

"Did you know August is the only month without a major U.S. federal holiday?"

--Spam from 1-800-Flowers, 08/19/09

The heck it isn't. August 29 is and has been, since 19xx, Annie Berrol Newman Day on calendars of hep people the world over. No floral tributes are necessary, but, if you want to get stinking drunk, it's okay with us.

Back, and Better Than Ever.

Was it the afternoon spent watching Julie & Julia, and the reminder of how much fun and excitement a blog can provide--the immediacy, the interactivity, the opportunity to curse and swear and tell your most intimate secrets and still have a chance to fix it all up when you get that book publishing deal?

Or was it the highly intelligent people, many of whom we have never met personally, who mentioned that they enjoyed reading this blog and wouldn't it be nice if we started writing it again?

Or perhaps it was the anticipated treat of explaining, YET AGAIN, that we refer to ourself as "we" because it is the editorial "we", a time-honored contrivance which writers from Charles Dickens to Cleveland Amory, and, uh, not many people recently, have used--none of them for the reason we do, which is that we would like to convince ourself that we hold the majority view on each and every topic?

Whatever the reason, we are up and writing this blog again. 

Let's catch up, briefly.

We last wrote in December of 2008, when we were involved in a flaming war and now we just have a headache and a dim feeling of self-hatred. Can we all just forget that ever happened? Some people like The French Laundry and some people feel that it should never be criticized and some people, that's us, feel that every sacred cow deserves a hot foot once in a while--if you can picture the mixed metaphor, and you might not want to try.

It was also at that point that we concluded our Master's in Social Work studies. This being a lousy time in which to get a job, we took several quick courses in grant writing, and then did some volunteer work. 

Eventually it became clear that we would need to live part of the week in Manhattan if we wanted to get into any income-generating projects, and so we now rent a tiny studio in the Chelsea neighborhood. It is barely big enough for the one of us. 

When in town, which we are for two or three nights per week, we eat out or order in, and sit in an Ikea chair which cost only $22 and thoroughly numbs our butt.

At home at The Old Newman Place in Kingston, we cook up a storm. (Sometimes we act a little more to the point and cook up a meal, too.) 

Our beautiful daughter T. is with us on weekends and enjoys our efforts, especially when they can be covered in tomato sauce. (You might remember that the BD is 19 and moderately mentally retarded).

Pal Odillio is still around and tending our garden, what hasn't been lost to the Late Blight. 

BFF La Skolnique hangs out in groovy Santa Cruz, CA, and we will be spending three weeks with her next month--one in San Francisco, where, as you know, we left our heart last year; one week at Calistoga, which is in the Napa Valley and where La Skol wants to take a therapeutic mud bath; and one week in Santa Snooze itself. 

"Woodstock West", as it is never called, is also famous for having a store which sells chocolate-covered bacon.

This leads us to another bit of news: we have been diagnosed with diabetes, in addition to being what is known medically as Fat As A Cow. And indeed, there are individuals of the bovine persuasion hereabouts who could actually take a long look at us and, with a delicate whisk of the tail, turn on us as if muttering "P.U.!" and walk some distance. Not many, but there are some...so we are now counting carbs.

This is dangerous because, as our friend Cindy mentioned today, when you finally break and have yourself a nice loaf or two of bread and maybe a few bags of Milano cookies, your body chemistry will punish you by releasing all the fat on which you have been gorging yourself straight into your rear end. And won't the cows laugh at you then!

Diabetes and carb-counting are not terrible for us right now because we don't have to do the meds or the finger-sticking yet--but our doctor might tell us different when we see him next week. 

We also do not drink. 

But our good friend Paul has been told to basically cut all enjoyment from his life and diet, just because of this selfsame diabetes, and we dread the day that we might have to do the same. All we can say is, it has not come yet.

We are still chums with JC, that classy gent, and we have made (or re-made, life on Facebook being what it is) other friends to whom we hope to introduce you. Our young roommate Amy is out of the house, so there will be no more copy about her. Our cat, Fuzzy, abides--generally in our "In" box, and to the exclusion of any actual paperwork.

One last point: 

We liked Julie & Julia, although we wouldn't recommend it to anyone who dislikes chick flicks, gets impatient with historical drama, or does not understand why people enjoy eating and wouldn't it be easier if we could just take a pill three times a day. 

As to the current controversies, in which every food blogger who is not Julie Powell is going around saying that the movie would have been better off without her or that she isn't Julia Child or some other non sequitor, we would only like to interject that no, Julie isn't Julia--but she is Julie Powell, a talented writer whose blog and book did happen to be about more than trying to become a famous foodie. 

Julie gave an unforgettable picture of the indignity of life in the "pink collar" ghetto, which isn't any more attractive now that its denizens are called "Assistants" instead of "Secretaries". Why are young females treated badly by their male superiors? Julie Powell doesn't have the answer to that one, but she does open the question to discussion, and I hope she comes back to it soon.

 And let's also stop pointing out that the elderly Mrs. Child disapproved of Julie's blog, which she might or might not have read. Two points: A) Of course she didn't like the cursing, but Julie writes that way and so that's the way it is, and B) Mrs. Child was very, very old and somewhat unwell and quite lonely without her Paul, and her opinion of the exuberant, talented Julie might have been different a decade or two previous. 

And even if it would have been the same, so what? Julia's achievement stands alone. So does Julie's. Seems there's enough at this feast without adding the sour grapes.