You know the one I’m talking about. It’s fusion. Adam Platt just raved about it. “Icelandic cuisine meets Ethiopia,” he says (think: a fish stuffed with finger-food…or perhaps fingers). It’s in Greenpoint or New Jersey or another unexpected neighborhood I have to take two trains to get to. Half an hour after our reservation, we’ll still be waiting at its fantastic bar drinking my week’s salary in cocktails. The model-wannabe hostess is bored and rude, and the chiseled waiters are catty—probs gay. Everything’s organic, even the napkins and tablecloths. Now I know what I’m paying for—good information, since the minimalist décor and small portions confused me. The menu changes every night and making my entrée vegetarian will insult the chef. But it’s so hip and everybody’s talking about it! You’re a real philistine if you don’t want to slip the hostess a hundo and lick some balls. (It’s just an expression, Mom, like “I’d eat a horse” or “I slept with him for concert tickets.”) Everyone there will probably just sneer at my last-season Philip Lim smock, anyway.
No, thanks. I’ll order in.