Me Auditioning to Write Restaurant Reviews for the New Yorker

“It takes a bold restaurateur to set up shop in the No-Man’s Land of [insert absurd neighborhood name associated either with Wall St. or poor people], but [ludicrously stupid restaurant name] just might succeed where so many other farm-to-table efforts have failed”

“The fetal duck braised in its own mother’s tears was insouciant, but a refreshing fricassee of locally-sourced stinging nettle and the claws of Hudson otters brought an invigorating, earthy crunch”

“The house cocktail, which incorporates hand-strained gin into a spicy slosh of ram’s blood and pulverized chickpeas imported from war-torn Syria, left one patron flummoxed and longing for an un-hip gin-and-tonic”

“In the criss-crossing alleyways of [impoverished developing nation devastated by the structural adjustments imposed by American banks], the [quaint street food] reigns supreme. At [restaurant named after its owner’s dog], [celebrity chef] combines its native charms–grease, salt, and red meat–with the sensibility of the Wall Street [polite synonym for douchebags] who flock to this out-of-the-way gem during happy hour. The results–[quaint street food] piled with perfectly-roasted flecks of crispy kale, stuffed with hand-killed shredded ox throat, and finished with a light dusting of the ash from burned hundred-dollar bills–are the perfect guilty pleasure, especially when paired with the in-house mixologist’s signature concoctions (the best is the Lazy Ol’ Swayback Mule, based on his fond childhood memory of the ancient African-American man who polished his father’s shoes every morning in the family’s Hamptons villa)”

“Although the menu is mostly vegetarian, the chef wisely includes a few items that normal people with legitimate tastes might actually want to eat, such as gigantic, drippy cheeseburgers garnished with bacon, and served with a side of fries drizzled with melted duck fat. Who cares about global warming (or your arteries) when the meat is done this well? Open weekdays, until 2 a.m.”

“The attempt at cheekiness often foundered. The baked mac-and-cheese–an ironic nod to middle-America–was marred by the inexplicable inclusion of chèvre, while the ‘Mom N’Pop escarole salad with house-made ranch dressing’ was as limply bland as a Midwestern accent and as tedious as a middle class person’s anecdote about attending a state university”

“Both Chelsea Clinton and the comedian Dane Cook stood at the bar, vainly trying to get the attention of a waiter, while at a nearby table Mark Zuckerberg, Beyoncé, Jonathan Franzen, half of the band Mumford and Sons, the ghost of JP Morgan, and the performance artist Maria Abramovic were discussing entrepreneurship.”

“The highlight of the menu is the suckling pig, hand-raised to love and trust its owner before having its throat slit and its body held kicking and struggling over a hand-thrown vintage-modern clay blooding toureen made by the chef’s wife, a sculptor whose work has been commissioned by Pottery Barn and the Met. Roasted over exquisitely-cured mesquite branches from the owner’s Texas ranch, the pig, who had been shown nothing but gentle kindness until the moment its owner grabbed it by the hind legs and hung it up on a hook while it screamed in terror, is served whole, on a bed of lightly-braised endangered songbirds (the owner has a permit), its skull daintily split open so that the whole table can share its brains. As one patron was heard to remark, while sipping her third sloe-gin fizz, ‘Viva la Revolución!'”

This entry was posted in Opinion. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Me Auditioning to Write Restaurant Reviews for the New Yorker

  1. Sam says:

    I cannot deal with how accurate and horrifying this all is. It is beautiful and terrible and I look upon it and despair.

  2. Meg says:

    Please get this published somewhere!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *