The Bruni Digest

In which I sit on a dirt mound somewhere in Brooklyn with my ears pricked, waiting for New York Times head restaurant critic Frank Bruni, who I imagine to be a Venetian count in a huge ruffled collar, to dole out stars from the inside breast pocket of his brocaded chamber robe. This blog is predicated on the suggestion that every Wednesday, in the Times Dining Out section, Frank lays a huge faberge egg of hilarity.

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Location: New York, New York, U.S. Outlying Islands

I am fiscally irresponsible, which means I have weak bones and a dorsal fin. And a penchant for dining out, even though I am, in the words of many rich people, a "poor people". I make a different face when speaking each of the foreign languages in which I am shittily proficient.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Duane Park Cafe

This week, Signore Franco whips a burlap cape over his visage, ducks out of the spotlit scene, and sits on a dusty Tribeca stoop, playing an adagio on a tiny, wooden flute. No more midriffs and models! the gimmicky meatpacking district has exhausted Frank, and this week, he kicks it humbler a notch, revealing a "moral message" behind Duane Park Cafe's anonymity: "the way it fades into the woodwork of New York was illustrative and instructive," which is [huge sound of gong banging] obviously redundant. To translate Bruni's final thoughts into my own vernacular, basically it's effing sick how psyched we should be to live in a town where a decent and pretty creative place like this has about as much appeal as Bea Arthur naked on a bed of thumbtacks. In service of this point, cruel, burdened New York Times standard-bearer Bruni must beat the solicitous Duane Park Cafe off his ankle and let the ragged wretch go, like Kate Winslet snapping Leo's corpscicle off her log shard at the end of Titanic: Duane Park's survival "says as much about how lucky we are as how limited this restaurant is." Limited, and one star [affectionate wave as Duane Park floats, frigid, to the bottom of the sea.]

Amazing Brunisms of the Week:

-"That venison was infused with a blackberry tea that conspired with the overcooked meat to turn the dish into a murky, gummy gastronomic apocalypse." hm, what's this in my hotel drawer? Oh it's Gideon Yago's journal. Oh, no wait a minute, it's a Gideon's bible. Someone left their notes in the margin, in what looks like 16th century nib scribble: it reads "Aha! Yes! I will use this theme! By my coxcombs, you are a genius, Frank."


-"The sins of mustard-crusted tuna were twofold: vapidity and aridity." MUSTARD-CRUSTED TUNA, YOU WILLLLL ROT IN HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Vapidity and Aridity? Jesus. Thats the verbal equivalent of sicking two rabid identical twin dachshunds on to that tuna. To. The. Quick.

I miss Twinkletoes P. Indulgence and his band of revelrous adverbs. Frank reminds me why I'm so lucky to live in a city where homeless rats poop on my stove and a pack of Gummi-Savers can cost me a Jackson, but nevertheless I hope that next week Frank will pirouette into Versailles or a sugar factory, something rarefied and naughty, with his notebook in his tights and his secretly reasonable, democratic streak safely hidden behind his mascara.

1 Comments:

Blogger Michelle Collins said...

So I know this is off topic, but I just watched the movie Collateral, which somehow led me to the IMDB page of Proof. Remember that? PROOF?? They STILL have NOT released that movie! In fact, so far the only info is that it's opening in Argentina in July. I prefer to think that our chortling jostled Harvay into clear mindedness and scrapped the whole project altogether.

1:14 AM, February 25, 2005  

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