Rosemary and Thyme

I mentioned recently that Netflix, in its attempt to focus my attention solely on those of its offerings it feels would appeal to me, has created several categories of television shows and movies to capture my attention. They often seem remarkably specialized, as when it collects together Goofy Musicals or 1970s Sitcoms with a Strong Female Lead. Sometimes, it seems almost a little too specialized, as when the service offers up Campy Comedies Featuring Cross-Dressing Stars, or Cerebral Dramas with Exquisite Cinematography Set on Wind-Swept Moors and Cast with Actors Sporting Impenetrable Accents.

And then other times, it'll gather up Hot in Cleveland and Emmet Otter's Jug-Band Christmas and Xena: Warrior Princess and old episodes of Top Chef and lump them in a category called Aw, Who the Hell Are We Kidding? We Know You'll Watch Anything.

But Netflix does seem to have glommed onto the fact that my favorite of these categories it creates is a little something called Holy Crap Even Gwyneth Paltrow Speaking with a British Accent Will Get You Going, Won't It, You Bloody Anglophile? After my excursion into bodice-and-bustle territory with the breathless Lillie, an interminable biography of British professional hussy Lillie Langtry, I naturally segued into related territory with Edward the King, a thirteen-part miniseries about the lives and times of King Edward VII, whose major life accomplishments seem to have been not taking the throne because Queen Victoria decided to live a very long life simply to spite him, and not being riddled with syphillis.
During the first eleven episodes, Edward the King was a ripping watch—simply because Annette Crosbie's turn as Queen Victoria was so positively unhinged that every time she was on the screen, I'd stop whatever I was doing, just in case she started screaming like a banshee. The last two episodes, it was mostly a crabby King Edward coughing and hacking up phlegm.

I was also treated during the run to another example of one of my unfavorite trends of these nineteen-seventies period productions, the casting of (shall we discreetly say) an Actress Of A Certain Mature Number Of Years as a teenaged-girl. I was appalled by it when thirty-two-year-old Francesca Annis was bustin' out all over as fourteen-year-old Lillie Langtry. So I wasn't all that happy in Edward the King when in the second or third episode I saw then-thirty-year-old British TV favorite Felicity Kendal show up wearing a massive hoop skirt, in pigtails, and murmur in a simpering voice something like, "But mama, I know you are the Queen yet I cannot bring myself to marry the future Emperor Frederick III of Germany for he is a man of advanced years and I am but a tender reed of sixteen."

Which had me drop everything I was doing and to glare at the screen and yell, "Oh, come on."

Like Francesca Annis, Felicity Kendal is another of my childhood favorites. She was charm personified in the BBC sitcom The Good Life, which ran on U.S. PBS stations in the nineteen-seventies as Good Neighbors. You remember it! It was about the Goods, a suburban couple who decide to become self-sufficient. Richard Briers played Tom, who was gruff and blunt and thoroughly irritable. Kendal played Barbara, who mucked about in the gardens and was winsome and adorable and who, when she was frightened or angry, made high-pitched little strangled noises, and when she was Very Serious, would pull on an adorable pair of oversized spectacles.

Well! When I saw that Netflix was carrying the horticultural amateur detectives series from the mid-2000s, Rosemary and Thyme, which also stars Kendal, I had to watch it it. I missed it the first time 'round, somehow. It's about a couple of women who decide to become detectives. It stars Pam Ferris as Thyme, who is gruff and blunt and thoroughly irritable. Kendal plays Barbara—excuse me, Rosemary—who mucks about in gardens and is winsome and adorable and who, when she is about to be bludgeoned by the murderer-of-the-week, makes high-pitched little strangled noises, and when she's Very Serious And Investigating A Clue, pulls on an adorable pair of oversized spectacles.

The two shows are very different from each other.

You see, every week, Tom and Barbara—I'm sorry, Thyme and Rosemary—head out to a posh residence, or boarding school, or resort spa, where a bunch of toffs mill about, spouting off vague threats to each other that later will be consider Hard Evidence For Murder by the local constabulary. Someone dies, Tom and Barbara—sorry, 'Rosemary'—decide they're better-equipped to nose into it than the police, and they proceed to ask so many irritating and unsubtle questions ("Lady Worthington-Smythe, exactly how much do you know about the creation of untraceable poisons from common household ingredients? Oh, no reason. Just making polite conversation!") that five minutes before the show's over, the writers just bring about a hasty conclusion by having the murderer get so irritated that he attempts to kill one of the pair.

This is usually when my interest perks up.

But no. The killers' attempts to bring down Tom and Barbara—let's just stick with those names, since I'm more comfortable with them—always fail. Instead of trying to make getaways, like gauche Americans or the lower classes might, the killers then stand about and confess everything in front of the police, because apparently that's what they do in the United Kingdom, being jolly good sports about being foiled and all.

The level of detective work involved in a typical Rosemary and Thyme installment isn't exactly Encyclopedia Brown-level. Hell, Encyclopedia Brown would roll his eyes at this crap and outsource his services to Scooby-Doo and company. If someone has an alibi like "I was with dear mummy in Little Cruddington watching a world-famous Polish pianist perform," Barbara is sure to stumble across a copy of The Little Cruddington Gazette with a (I'm not kidding!) three-inch headline typeface declaiming, WORLD-FAMOUS POLISH PIANIST CANCELS TONIGHT'S CONCERT!!! The killers magically forget to roll down their sleeves and keep covered the tattoos that link them to the special military forces that are the only known folk trained to use a special death-grip that leaves no marks about the throat.

Hell. Most of the time the plot's such a muddled mess that Tom and Barbara figure out absolutely nothing, and it's only the murderer inevitable denouement monologue that sorts everything out. Yes, it's a sloppy and appalling show . . . but I can't stop watching it.

Part of my fascination with Rosemary and Thyme is how academic an exercise it is to the writers. The cozy mystery is a genre I've enjoyed since I first read a Miss Marple novel, and it's obvious that the writers want this show to be a part of that tradition. In most cozies, though, the murder is disruptive; it tears apart the community and lays bare its secrets.

In Rosemary and Thyme, murder and violence barely go noticed. When Barbara has a former student who throws himself (or DID he?) off of a balcony and is writhing in pain, near death, on a carefully-tended gravel path, his fiancee and brother and Barbara all show up at the sound of impact. But where normal people would be shouting Oh my GOD someone call an ambulance!, the fiancee and brother just stand around for a bit and have a Conversation Full of Potential Clues, while Kendal's character lurks behind a hedge and eavesdrops, adorably. No concern for the injured bloke whatsoever. Not a blip. Also, at the end of every episode, after Tom and Barbara have 'solved'—and I use the word loosely—the mystery, they'll exchange japes with the widow or widower and everyone will laaaaaaugh, just like they used to when Barbara would say something endearingly silly at the end of The Good Life. Never mind that someone JUST GOT SHOT AND KILLED the night before. That's all water under the bridge to these people.

Even though the show's based on violent acts taking place, they're all so muffled and muted by the cozy comforts of country living that they vanish the moment they're over. I was watching an episode in which the killer snuck up on Barbara as she puttered around with test tubes and a microscope or something (I don't know. She's supposed to have a scientific mind, even though she can't remember to call an ambulance when someone drops off a high balcony) and proceeded to attempt to strangle her with piano wire, which naturally made me root for him to succeed. But no, a kindly caretaker hits the murderer over the head with an old framed photograph, causing him to collapse to the floor in a heap.

And does the caretaker say anything like, Cor blimey, what was that chap doing to you, Mistress Barbara? No. He says, "Good thing I was stopping by with this framed photograph to help you solve the mystery of the withering grass on the estate grounds, ma'am!"

And does Barbara say anything like, Thank GOD you arrived to SAVE MY LIFE! This man has murdered twice in the last two days! Help me restrain him quickly while he's still unconscious before he can leap to his feet and attempt to murder us both . . . again . . . and let's call the constable? Oh heck no. She pulls out her oversized glasses and says, in quite a normal tone, "Oh, how fehscinating. Let's have a look."

Then the murderer leaps to his feet and attempts to murder them both . . . again.

Idiots.

As I said, I can't stop watching. Perhaps picking on a television show that's long passed its expiration date is a little like shooting tuna in a rather small bucket of water, but it's hard not to have an affection for something the creators were obviously banking upon to appeal to a somewhat mature, if not outright decrepit, demographic that has fond memories of Kendal from thirty-five years ago. Myself included.

Even so. Whenever the killer of the week gets Barbara—fine, whatever—'Rosemary' by the throat, I'm the first to be shouting out at the television, "Need a hand with that?!"

Yelpaholics Anonymous

A year and more ago, when Craig and I were grappling with the reality that he'd just accepted a job in Connecticut and until our house sold would be moving here without me like, immediately, we made a couple of trips to this fair state in order to suss it out a little. Highly stressful trips they were, too, for the both of us. From our base at an off-ramp hotel, we had no idea how to get around, or where was good to visit and where was better to stay away. And when you come from Detroit—I love you, Detroit, but you know it's true—you learn that there are definitely areas of cities you avoid.


Worst of all, we had absolutely no idea where to eat. Now, usually when we're dining out, we handle it a little like this:

CRAIG: Where do you want to eat?
ME: I don't know. Where do you want to eat?
CRAIG: I don't have a preference. Where do you want to eat?
ME: I don't have a preference. What're you in the mood for?
CRAIG: I'm not in a mood for anything in particular. What do you want to eat?

This conversation will go on for a half-hour or so in its own amiable, ambling little way, by the way, until finally we get into the car and go to the same Mexican restaurant we always patronize.

Under the high stress circumstances of relocation, however, these conversations would take on a slight edge:

CRAIG: Where do you want to eat?
ME: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? CAN'T YOU SEE I'M STRESSED?! AAAAIEEEEE!CRAIG: OH GOD I'M RUINING BOTH OUR LIVES!

Well. When we started coming to Connecticut, in order to avoid any more of that kind of thing (which was already spontaneously happening every twenty-three minutes), I turned to Yelp for a little assistance in finding places to dine.

I know that Yelp is not a newfangled web site that all the hep kids have suddenly started visiting. It's not now, it wasn't then. In fact, we'd known a couple of people who were admitted obsessive Yelp reviewers, an activity to which most of us would gently ignore in public, as if the hobbyists had confessed they'd taken up public masturbation as a suitable leisure pursuit.

We hadn't used Yelp much in Michigan because the midwest is largely the land of the chain restaurant, and really, does one need to consult a database in order to decide whether one Applebee's is better than the next? Connecticut is a state in which the seeds of chain restaurants find no purchase, however. There are hundreds upon hundreds of mom and pop restaurants, and there's plenty of fine dining, but there are remarkably few restaurant chains.

Unless you're Dunkin' Donuts, that is. Dunkin' Donuts franchises are the weeds that flourish even on salted, barren land, up here. I could tell you where one Dunkin' Donuts was in Michigan. One. And that's only because it was attached to a gas station. There are about thirty Dunkin' Donuts within a one-mile radius of me here, and they're building another two blocks down the street. Oh, and pretzel chains. Connecticut loves its hot pretzel chains. Dunkin' Donuts, if you ever come up with a pretzel-flavored donut for citizens of the Nutmeg State to dunk, you will have a hit on your hands of astronomical proportions.

You're welcome. I only ask for credit. And a small development fee.

But anyway. Yelp. I was hungry, and desperate, and so on my phone I punched in a request for a restaurant that was within a couple of miles and was cheap and served—yes—Mexican, and we ended up eating at a tiny little dive that had some really incredible food. It was so spicy I walked out with sweat marks on my back and on my thighs, but I like it like that. We used Yelp again for the other meals on those short trips. We'd look for a type of food, check out the reviews, and try the ones that seemed to be popular and get a lot of stars. It worked out well for us.

And it still does, since we continue to use the site to find places where we can grab a bite. It's especially handy when we head into Manhattan, with its bewildering abundance of choice. I find it generally easier to get a sense of what dishes are popular, of how much to expect to pay, and of whether or not I might like a place from reading through a dozen Yelp reviews, than I do from looking at a restaurant's website or accepting the word-of-mouth recommendations of local acquaintances.

If you sense there's a big but coming, you know me well. Because there's one thing about Yelp that really bugs me: I simply cannot stand many of its reviewers. We're talking about a small percentage here. Small, but super-irritating. I've noticed that a lot of Yelp reviewers provoke in me the same reaction I have when I hear someone is rubbing his hands all over an inflated latex balloon: I want to march over and make him stop. Preferably with a good slapping.

It's a phenomenon that seems almost endemic to this part of the country, too. When I was using Yelp back in Michigan, the reviews largely tended be along the lines of I like potatoes. This place serves good potatoes! The potatoes with cheese are good! The steak with cheese is great, and it comes with good potatoes! I really like the chicken with cheese too! I mean, throw a little cheese on something and the good people of Michigan are happy, simple folk who write happy, simple Yelp reviews as they loosen their belt buckles a notch.

But the East Coast Yelpers are complainers. A little bit of cheddar jack isn't going to distract them. Oh no. They're too savvy for your stinkin' dairyland legerdemain. They want to gripe about something, even if it's largely imaginary. In fact, many of them will complain without exactly knowing why, so there are a plethora of seemingly gentle, neutral reviews with a bit of a stinger at the end, like the two-star review of a coffee shop that reads:

This quiet, cozy establishment always has soft music playing in the background, and there's always a comfy chair to sit in. The atmosphere is collegial and friendly. Books and magazines line the walls and in the winter months there is a fire roaring in the fireplace. The coffee is delicious—the best I've ever had. So yeah, I find the place depressing and that's why I give it only two stars.

One wonders what more the poor reviewer would require from a coffee shop to get him out of that malaise. A cotton candy machine? A Zoloft dispenser?

The worst breed of Yelp reviewer, though, is the Yelper with Attitude. They know everything about food, and they want you to know that they know it. And they're going to make sure you know it in their hundred-word Yelp review, damn your eyes. Yelp on the East Coast is full of reviewers who write mini-essays that are less about the restaurants in question, and more about the reviewers themselves, and their psychological dramas.

I'm usually all in favor when a person makes the broadest of statements about his qualifications for making sweeping judgments about a restaurant. I wouldn't bat an eye at someone saying, I eat a lot of Indian food and this place had some yummy stuff! I do, however, find my eyebrow arching and my hackles rising at something like:

I have been on vacation to Phuket twice and I can say with authority that the $6 bowl of pad thai I ate from this establishment did not compare to the masterful culinary delights prepared by trained chefs with the freshest ingredients at the resort hotel at which I stayed.

Because that review is not really helpful. All it tells me is that the reviewer wants me to know he travels, that he spends a lot of money traveling and wants everyone to be aware of that fact, and that he is very concerned with the number of stars his hotel has received.

If I'm dining at Chip's Pancakes, which serves fifty-two varieties of pancakes (I've only worked my way through three, but I've got time and an elastic stomach), I can be sure that here in this area of the country, tucked among the many rapturous reviews from pancake lovers, will be one Yelper who declaims:

I decided to bring my hard-earned consumer dollars to Chip's because after a long drive along the highway after my vacation at the Cape, I was definitely in the mood for some rustic, simple fare after a week of seafood dining. What a mistake on my part! I was horrified when I stepped into this establishment to find at my table an assortment of flavored 'syrups', the containers no doubt made sticky by the countless grubby fingers of children, judging by the placemats, which have illustrations for young people to 'color' while waiting for their food. The 'maple' syrup was only maple flavored, a faux-pas I was happy to point out to the confused and badly-trained wait staff. The 'butter' (which I darkly suspect was really margarine, and was not whipped, as I prefer!) arrived in a 'patty' served in a CARDBOARD tub! But the last straw was when I saw my pancake! I am accustomed to my pancakes being of a thinner and more crepe-like consistency! I suppose I should not expect refined eating at an establishment that panders to the lowest common denominator.

No, Yelper, you really shouldn't. We're talking about Chip's Pancakes, which advertises itself with big fat pictures of big fat flapjacks on monster-sized signs that loom over I-95. We're not discussing Le Bon Creperie du Fwahfwah down in the Meatpacking District. At the Creperie you can get your refined eating. At Chip's you get a big fat plate of big fat pancakes with a design made in them out of blueberries. Shove some in that bag fat piehole of yours and spare me.

This type of reviewer is the sort that will often go to great lengths to let others know exactly how well-educated he is, how sophisticated, and how truly attuned to excellence is his palate. You can smell 'em coming a mile away, especially when a review begins:

It was a blustery autumn day, and I had just emerged from the rehearsal of the Jacobean revenge drama in which I was starring, and had a few minutes before my class in African tribal drumming was to begin. I carried a copy of the exquisite Colombian poetry of Anabel Torres beneath my arm. I paused before the door, hesitated, and with mild interest ripening into piquant curiosity, at last stepped over the threshold into the quaint establishment known as Swanky Frankie's Hot Dog Shack.

Oh yeah. These reviews sound like a blast to mock. And they are, for about the first dozen. But I get the impression that most of these self-absorbed reviewers are not the kind of people I'd want to hang out with. They just get nasty. They write irate, outraged, self-righteous reviews in which they admit they weren't dissatisfied with the prices, the decor, or the food itself, but because of some imagined slight that sent them into a tizzy—they were seated too near the kitchen, say. It seems instead of making a good faith effort to resolve the problem (like, by asking someone nicely, "Can we maybe get another table?"), the reviewer stews and sits stonily and is even more outraged when the wait staff don't notice their obvious, passive-aggressive displeasure.

Then he runs home and pounds out a scathing Yelp review, of course. Because that'll show 'em.
I've seen reviewers write exquisitely-detailed screeds about the disputes they'll have with restaurant owners and waiters that would make even the most die-hard proponent of the motto the customer is always right raise an eyebrow and admit, "Well, maybe except in this case." The amount of pride that some of these people take in stiffing their servers on a tip, or attempting to get them fired, makes me want to track down the reviewer in a restaurant, wait until they've ordered a hamburger, then ambush them and drop a loogie on top of the pickles and lettuce myself.

But even when they're not going to those extremes, up here the Yelpers always find something to complain about. The place in Hell's Kitchen that specializes in cramming homemade ice cream between homemade glazed doughnuts and then covering them with gooey syrups? It doesn't have healthy alternatives, one Yelp review will sniff. The fantastic ice cream shop down the street that serves exquisite little half-pint cups of gourmet ice cream layered with homemade cookie dough, in exotic flavor combinations, served with a little wooden paddle like they used to when I was in second grade? It lacks an attractive view from the front windows, says one Yelper with a lofty, two-star dismissal.

You know what, Yelpers? Moderate your expectations. Seriously. Find a healthier dessert place among the several hundred cluttering Hell's Kitchen. Resign yourself to the notion that a street-level storefront tucked among the residences on West 47th is not going to have the same view as a chi-chi place atop the Time-Warner Center. If the food sucks, fine. Tell me. If the service was truly rotten, I want to hear about it. But if you're more interested in informing me that you have impossible standards to which very little can match, I'm already yawning and rolling my eyes.

If Maria Callas were alive today, she wouldn't be teaching master classes. She'd be writing Yelp reviews.