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.