You Don't Have to be Jewish

Because Howard Zieff died last week, I figure now is a good time to showcase one of his most famous advertising campaigns: Levy's Jewish Rye. 

If you ask people of a certain age (read: anyone over 40), this ad series was monumental in its time. He took normal-looking people which he found on the streets of New York--not the blonde-haired, perfectly freckled tots or slender, stylish models used for every other product in the 1960s--and made them give us some of the most honestly happy smiles in poster history. 

This, of course, wasn't the be all end all of Mr. Zieff's creative awesomeness: he went on to direct the 'spicy meat-a-ball' Alka Seltzer ad, and even the cinematic gem that is Private Benjamin (oh, wonder of my childhood!).

That said, you can't hang any of those Zieffs on your wall, whereas you can have any Levy's Rye poster for all of $200 this Thursday at auction.....decisions, decisions. 

Alka-Seltzer

There are some advertising campaigns, like the one in the previous entry, which show the world through the rosiest of glasses in order to sell you a product. 

Then there are ones which show you the bitter truths of the human condition, thereby indicating the necessity of said product. This Alka-Seltzer advertising campaign definitely fits into the latter category. 

We see before us three fabulously decadent spreads.....the phrase 'food porn' comes to mind. Oh, how I would love to chomp into that bratwurst and suck down those buttery potatoes; to inhale the delights of that sumptuous paella; and to ingest ever morsel of that pile of Italian treats. 

Perhaps I do not know any better, because consuming one, let alone all three, of these feasts will assuredly lead to such a gastrointestinal nightmare that I might swear off eating altogether. Or perhaps, I know all too well that my trusty friend Alka-Seltzer will somehow magically cure all tummy-related ailments as fast as you can say "plop, plop, fizz, fizz." 

Either way, for $100, I can have all three daily tempting me from my kitchen walls, reminding me that for every indulgence, there is probably an inexpensive cure.  

Del Monte

I can't quite figure out if the designers of this ad were going for a less-is-more approach or for something insanely melodramatic. 

If you can't make it out, the woman sporting the 1960s threads is cradling a can of Del Monte Tomato Paste to her bosom, label aptly positioned against her chest so that we all can see that it is, indeed, Del Monte which she is pressing to her heart. 

On the one hand, you've got a designer who has decided not to actually focus on the product. I mean, why do we, the audience, even need to know it's Del Monte, or any other tomato-based product for that matter? Instead, let us focus on the raven-haired lovely and the lush jungle setting, all of which put us in the mood for something delicious....oh, what's that in her hand? Oh yes, Del Monte....time to make some pasta sauce. 

Alternatively, perhaps Mr. Design Man thought he was bringing a bit of soap-opera drama to an otherwise-lackluster product. A young beauty, lost in the wilderness, gazes off into the distance. Is that  hope in her eye? Why yes it is! And what brings her such fortitude? Her Del Monte tomato paste, that's what! It is her lucky amulet, a talisman of strength that guides her through her perilous journey which a lesser woman would faint at the mere thought of! 

Either way, I feel my kitchen walls getting braver and more sumptuous by the minute once this saucy lady (yes, I know...awful, awful pun) gets framed. May she guide my tomato sauce to the Elision Fields of deliciousness, the ambrosian plains of epicurean glory.....

Make Way for Paté

Hopefully someone else out there read "Make Way For Ducklings" as a child and got that reference....if not, oh well. The poster doesn't even show a duck, so it's not exactly all that relevant anyway. 

Moving on, here we have a poster I love so hard. So hard is my love, in fact, that I've had it over my couch in both my London and New York residences. And no matter which side of the Atlantic it's been hung, no matter how full of other fabulous artworks my respective apartments have been, this is the framed wonder that every guest to enter my home drools over. It's just that cool. 

Here we have Mrs. Goose (well, technically Her Royal Highness, Mrs. Goose, given the crown). HRH Goose is toodling along down the street, waddling a very dignified waddle, all gilded feathers and shiny webbed toes, when suddenly she encounters an extra-large can of paté. And not just any paté, my friends, but L'oie d'Or, the veritable Queen o' Foie Gras--so royal that its got its own crown. 

At this moment, HRH Goose realizes the sad truth: her darling husband, Mr. Gander (also of HRH status) has been done in by some sick lover of paté and turned into a handsomely-packaged consumer item. Oh, the humanity! Yet, rather than bawl her little goose eyes out, she retains her nobility, jumping the entire 12-step coping process, and bows her head toward that which was her beloved Gander, acknowledging that even in death, he retains his deliciousness. 

If that's not a fabulous endorsement for paté, I'm not sure what is.