Bistro du Vent: Meat n' Potatoes...in the form of a bra n' panties
I feel like for the past several weeks I have been gearing up for Wednesdays, excitedly slipping on my cat-ears headband, painting whiskers on my face, and ringing Frank's doorbell with an empty plastic pumpkin outstretched in my hands.
But before I can even yell “Trick or Treat??” Frank has stuffed a handful of Kashi in my mouth, spanked me with a pine plank and sent me home with a copy of “Little Women” tucked somewhere in my unitard.
Frank’s all humility and values these days. I want candy! Where are all the indulgent Butterfingers and Charleston Chews I will later throw up on a Jenga tower?? I’d love to see Frank, in his present fit of monasticism, review the Enchanted Chateau in Beauty and the Beast: “The thousand gilded dancing spoons inviting me to ‘be our guest, be our guest, put our service to the test’ were like specious diamonds on the bosom of a gigolo-mongering Bathsheeba, yet the giant ham hock spat out by a talking oven certainly failed to seduce me.”
So with a lumberjack’s fist-pump, Frank applauds Bistro du Vent for its uncanny courage in serving what those Upper East Side you-know-whats (rhymes with "kunts," starts with a "c") refuse to eat: potatoes.
“At Bistro du Vent, Mr. Pasternack, in partnership with Joseph Bastianich and Mario Batali, has created his own private Idaho, a place where, if I may mix my geographical metaphors, diners heretofore victorious over starches are bound to meet their Waterloo.”
May I point out?: not exactly the words of a true Dan Connor. The Count’s anti-snob reviews may indicate that he has traded in his ruffles for a Carhart jumpsuit and a Cubs hat, but clearly he’s still turning in his Tuesday night copy in the form of sequins hot-glue-gunned to his servant’s ass.
Amazing Brunisms of the Week:
- “This cake is oily in the center and crunchy at the edges to precisely the right degrees, like an order of hash browns that's been to finishing school and graduated first in its class.” And below, her sister, who tested retarded at birth, went to public school, eats with her toes and farts at the table:
- “The restaurant fries [the pommes frites] in a combination of peanut oil and lard, with blissfully addictive results. A friend of mine suggested that they be advertised, in the manner of special fish, as ‘line-caught.’” This is his friend the marketing genius:
But literally, what does that line-caught thing even mean?
- “Desserts proved to be a trickier arena. Only the apple tart thrilled me, while pot de crème and a lemon tart simply accomplished their pleasant paces. The pink peppercorn ice cream with spit-roasted pineapple actually frightened me. The profiteroles were irritating.” Rrrrrright: because obviously an unfussy everyman who just wants his 'taters gets "thrilled" by tarts and "irritated" by profiteroles...
And so, despite the pink peppercorn ice cream, which apparently hopped up from under Frank's table in a Tutsi war mask covered in blood, he still feels that Bistro du Vent deserves 2 stars. Whether an extremely refined place like Café Gray, where one person spends all afternoon to make the berry topiary that garnishes your working animatronic marzipan laptop, should be on the same two-star level as a casual midtown bistro doing Frenchie staples, is a worthy question. But so is, “Essscuse me?” because this conclusion, Paula-Abdul style, casually pretends to be real English, and then, dramatically, isn’t.
“It's a place for diners who are suffering dazzle fatigue, and who have the wisdom to recognize a potato thoroughbred and the flexibility to submit to its spud service.”
The last time I had the flexibility to submit to someone’s spud service, I came in to work 6 hours late with a condom in my hair YOW!!
P.S. By “dazzle fatigue”, do you mean "sexy cargo pant"?