The Great Pickling Craze of 2011 has its benefits, but please keep the stuff away from my $30 entrée.
Unlike pizza, fried chicken, and the hamburger, the latest faux-comfort-food fad has mercifully fallen flat.
And while we’re at it, let’s also abolish tweeting food trucks, the tweeting of menu specials, and tweeting gasbag restaurant critics.
We like the idea of restaurants breaking down the whole cow. It’s the Gulliver-size, badly aged steaks we can’t abide.
Does that $4 cup of artisanal El Salvadoran “grand cru” really taste like “nectarines and washed bourbon”?
Enough handlebar mustaches and satin vests. Even the real Brooklyn restaurants feel like theme parks these days.
Restaurants With the Word “Club” in the Name:
Platt’s Law states that if it says it’s a “club,” it’s likely neither clubby nor exclusive.
Last year it was the “Black Label” at Minetta; now Michael White has his own “White Label.” Sorry, it’s still burger meat.
We’ve made our peace with antique deer horns. But we draw the line at compostable table mats and cardboard menu-holders foraged from Dumpsters.