Attack of the depressing coffee-table books By Beth Teitell Thursday, April 27, 2006 They call them “coffee-table” books, but if you ask me, they’re the Trojan horses of the publishing world. You let them into your house and give them primo table space because you want to flaunt your appreciation of life’s finer things: Tuscan villas or summer cottages or cutting-edge yurts.         But what happens? Your guests, the ones who were happy to come over to your place and have someone else cook for them, have the nerve to skim these traitorous books while you’re off caramelizing the Vidalias. Suddenly, the mood fades as they look up from “Luxe Lanais” and notice that your place is a bit, well, small, it lacks a view and the “art” you display are posters left over from college.      That food they were so eager to eat? Your appetizers are OK, but hummus and cut veggies (even if they are red peppers and pricey cocktail cherry tomatoes) are not quite the shaved mushroom truffle en papillote pictured in “Noshes of the Noblesse Oblige.”      Speaking as someone who almost allowed the “Ultimate Backyard: Inspired Ideas for Outdoor Living” into her home but was saved at the last minute by a savvy friend (who lives in a cramped, dingy, north-facing apartment), I now realize I’d be better off bringing home a real Trojan horse, complete with spear-wielding assassins.      When it comes to coffee-table books, it’s best to think like a trial lawyer: Don’t bring up anything you don’t want to be questioned on. Or, to put it in home decor terms: If the thread count on your sheets isn’t in the four figures, for goodness sake, don’t put out “Spectacular Hotels: The Most Remarkable Places on Earth.”          “It can get kind of depressing,” added my friend, who recently gave away a fabulous book on container gardens because it only threw into greater relief her lousy little pot of basil. “They call them ‘coffee-table’ books,” she said, “but they should really be ‘under-the-bed’ books. They’re like porn: inaccessible and, in the end, kind of depressing.”      At least I think that’s what she said. I was too busy leafing through the benign-sounding “Lofts” to listen. It’s hard to hear over your own sobs.