Around this time of year, you might bite into a perfectly good sandwich only to encounter something cold and mealy; by turns rock-hard and squishy; somehow both completely tasteless and disgusting. Yes, it's a winter tomato spreading its mushy pink guts all over your lunch. 
Write Comment
Email to Friend
You've experienced it dozens of times--as you approach your favorite farm stand in the farmers' market, you're confronted by a solid cordon of corn-peelers, clogging the approach to the corn bin, and obsessively peeling every ear of corn.
In the food world, one is exposed to all sorts of asinine PR speak -- "lifestyle consultant" and "food personality" come to mind -- but few terms stoop to the depressing depths of "brand ambassador." What exactly is a brand ambassador? So far as anyone can tell, it's publicistese for "paid spokesperson" or "corporate shill." Aside from convincing people to drink their brand of kimchi-flavored vodka or eat their line of frozen doughnut holes, these shambassadors don't practice any actual diplomacy or do their part to further global understanding and goodwill. In fact, there would arguably be more goodwill in the world if the term were disposed of entirely.
If you've never advised a foreign sovereign, you're not an ambassador. If you're getting paid by a company to promote its product, you're not an ambassador. If your idea of the UN is a party in the Cooper Square Hotel with an Aston Martin DB9 parked in the lobby, you're not an ambassador. It really doesn't require a press release to figure that out.
People generally go to a restaurant's website to find out the location, hours, how to make a reservation, and maybe take a look at the menu. So why is that information so hard to find on many websites? First comes the music, some horrible jazzy stuff that startles everyone in your office, and then the artsy "preview" that goes on forever, and then, finally, you're at the main screen and can try to actually find out something useful.
DBGB's website is a classic offender--lots of pretty pictures of the food, a section called "talent" where you can find a headshot and extensive bio of the executive chef, screeds on the place's interior design, and private dining. But where is the restaurant located? The address is at the bottom right, but the text is weirdly obscured and garbled by an overlaid link to Open Table. And as far as we can tell, the hours are not listed anywhere.
|
One kind of bathroom we invariably hate are those located downstairs, far from the public restaurant areas. The dining room can be sunny and clean-smelling, but the moment you start to descend the stairs, a musky smell rises up around you. By the time you reach the lower level, which is often ill-lit, you note teetering stacks of boxes and discarded equipment on all sides. The smell of vegetal decay in the unventilated space is overpowering. It's like being in a Poe story, and the ragged shadows seem to jump out at you.
You reach for the doorknob and find it wet. Pulling back, you wonder: Can I hold it till I get home?
You begin placing your order: There's a cocktail, an appetizer, a main course, a glass of wine, a cheese course, a dessert, and maybe a digestif or double espresso. As you stare in admiration, the waiter stands with no pad, head cocked to one side, memorizing the entire order as you recite it. He does the trick with three additional diners, then turns to poke the order into a touch screen across the room. But before he gets there, he's back again. "What was your appetizer?" he asks, then turns to another diner, "And what was your entree?" Use an order pad, dude!
|
A couple years ago, some wise-ass chef (Please tell us his name, so we can trumpet his infamy to the skies!) decided to lazily repackage the artichoke, by not cooking it at all, and cutting up the leaves to make a crude slaw, probably keeping the heart for himself. The idea spread like wildfire, and now you can find it on many bistro menus, designated only as "baby artichoke." What a fraud!
|
Maybe blame Tom Colicchio for extending this practice to non-steakhouse places. Even more durable than his contribution as stickman for Top Chef, is his institutionalization of price-added dining to nearly every level of the dining industry. At Craft, the sides were all separately priced, and you even paid extra for sauces, at least in the early days. It was a restaurateur's dream. Now the "entree"--which might be priced at $20 or $30--was no longer capable of feeding you completely, you had to pay extra to enjoy side dishes that you once ate for free. Not only was it highway robbery, it was ungenerous in the extreme, an abnegation of the age-old role of publican, whose responsibility it was to see that not only were you fed, but went away happy, as well. Now you can only stare at your check and grumble...
Once the restaurant has sold you desserts, coffees, digestifs, and every other damn thing they can think of, it's common for the service to abruptly fall off. Need a glass of water? Forget about it! Another napkin because yours dropped on the floor? Beyond the realm of possibility. You may find yourself setting out across the room like a jungle explorer in search of your waiter, just to get the check. Somehow, the endgame is the area of service most often neglected, and a meal that was otherwise excellent in every way can be vastly diminished as you sit disconsolately for 15 minutes among the dirty plates and smeary glasses of the final course.
You assume your seat, and despite the presence of empty, well-situated tables, you've been assigned a wretched one. It might be next to the kitchen, or in a bottleneck where servers are sure to bump into you, or in a drafty spot next to the front door. Your appeals to the host's humanity fall on deaf ears, and you're offered another table worse than the first. Is it something you said, you wonder, or has the greeter sized you up as hopelessly unhip?
Savor the entire Things We Hate series
Discover restaurants, nightlife, travel, shopping...
Get 50 to 90% off every day on restaurants, movies, massages...
More than 10,000 of the BEST things to eat, drink, and experience
Join the Village Voice community and get exclusive deals and info
Your local Happy Hour guide at your fingertips
Log in or Sign up
Social Connect:Use your favorite account to access My Voice Nation.
Use your My Voice Nation account to log in:
Sign Up or Log in
Social Connect:Sign up for My Voice Nation with your preferred network.
Sign up for a My Voice Nation account:
