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.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Della Rovere: "There's a Jew, a Polack, and a foppish raconteur in a rowboat..."

Have you ever heard the old Italian expression, “Sometimes the proctologist uses surprisingly nice lube”? No? Well, no matter: Today's theme is "secret treats at crappy places": Frank is telling us about a few impressive dishes at an average enoteca called Della Rovere (Italian for “In the Range Rover”.)

BUT, to deliver this news, he has put on an oversized black leather jacket, greased back his hair, and signed himself up for beginners night at a Jersey club called something like “The Ha-Ha Bucket” or “Dan’s Chuckle Hole.”

After asking if anybody here’s from out of town, he begins,

“New York needs another Italian restaurant like Seattle needs rain…It represents about as virgin a theater for long lists of wines by the glass as Las Vegas does for keno cards.” I know—it’s no use mourning the fact that he said “keno cards” rather than “pension-pissing geezers,” or “cross-gender hustlers.” He’s new at this, cut him some slack. I had a fist full of rotten tomatoes suspended in the air, until I realized that his humor is actually adorable, and that I needed the tomatoes to garnish that evening’s boot-and-tin-can stew.

“My friends and I practically had to perform calisthenics to catch the server’s attention.” (Why do I suspect it was actually “RIGHT HAND, YELLOW!” in nudie swingers Twister?) The performing doesn’t end there. “The persistent emptiness of our water glasses suggested a sudden Tribeca drought.” Ay-O! And finally, “the gap of time between when we finished our entrees and when we were asked about dessert could almost have accommodated a showing of ‘The Aviator.’” YOWCH!

As if receiving negative-29 Oscars wasn’t enough, Scorsese turns around to find himself being almost imperceptibly spanked by a tiny Count Frank with a Hermes switch.

"Your movie's stinky! I'm hungry for petit-fours..."

“That beet salad…was among the best of the 1,189 I have tasted over the last nine days.” I have actually run this one through my scientific joke detector machine, trustily manufactured by the same people that patented Tom Cruise, and it is, officially, an exaggeration meant to cause subtle delight. In other words, it's a joke-- THANKFULLY he did not eat 2,000 beets this week, ‘cause word to the wise, The Crimson Poopers ain’t just a Harvard a-capella group. Ahem. Moving on.

Frank creating jokes:

After getting all micromanaging-middle-aged-wife on us and telling us, to the bite, what to eat at Della Rovere, Frankie Goodtimes ends his set: “even a city as lavishly delectable as ours can stand another treat.” A.k.a, “Dis one time I was fuggin' a nasty chick, and it was like, pretty good.”


Anonymous Anonymous said...

no you DID NOT take a portrait of me sewing my own funereal shrowd without asking. jules: you are a sneaky, dev'lish little treat!

jules's pet grandma

2:08 PM, March 24, 2005  
Blogger Jules said...

It's true, gramma, I used you to make a punch line, wrong as that is.

P.S. your huge panties are on a dancing bear in front of the Port Authority. He's playing the Marseillaise on a Casio keyboard and queefing the chorus.

love you!

2:35 PM, March 24, 2005  

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