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.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005


Much like Lucky, the Diet Coke-toting construction worker that made douchy housewives galore swoon in the early 90’s, Bond45 is “big, blunt and built for the masses,” and has a similar effect on Frank. And I completely understand. Sometimes you want a meaningful relationship with an intelligent man. And sometimes, like a 19 year old Sophomore named Brie or Tianna from Florida State University (“I enjoy chain letters, Red Bull, and my boyfreeeeiinnd!”) who takes ten steps past the giant gates of MTV Spring Break Cancun and finds herself topless in a vat of Maaco fuel with a stranger doing bodyshots off her areola, you just want to go buck wild. All of a sudden, “cozier, frumpier gems” look so trifling when faced with a theatrical rodeo that keeps its copious meats, however nasty, in the open. “You want to loosen your belt and relax your standards as soon as you walk in the door.” Yes, that is a literal direct quotation from Frank (and incidentally a college slogan that thirteen babies in a shrubbery just north of 116th and Broadway can thank me for adopting)

"Did somebody say 'adopting'?"

“Its owner, Sheldon Fireman, knows how to project a sense of bounty at his restaurants”: at Bond45, much like at Fireman's Fiorello, which also boasts a "brimming antipasto bar", he keeps all sorts of delicious Italian treats in view, in a theatrical fashion.

Frank graces the food with such accolades as “decent,” and “suitably meaty”; the place “doesn’t have much of a wine list” and the service is “somewhat abrupt.” In a dazzling articulation of mediocrity, “A porterhouse for two did not scale the Lugerian summit of carnivorous ecstasy, but it got halfway up the slope.” Lugerian summit of carniverous ecstasy? SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN, Nora Roberts; Frank is clearly nipping at your tails.

“The restaurant's name refers to the clothing store that used to be at this address and to the street itself. That store, according to the restaurant's publicity materials, offered two pairs of pants with every suit. If its customers were the kinds of people who supped regularly at restaurants like Bond 45, they undoubtedly demanded that second pair in a larger size.”

a.k.a. “I didn’t really know his name, he wasn’t very smart, he had cystic acne and swam with waterwings, but yeah, we frenched for like an hour by the port-o-potty, and I’d do it again, ‘cause it’s SPRING BREAK and I DON'T EVEN CARE!!!!!!”

Drink up, Tianna.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

finds herself topless in a vat of Maaco fuel with a stranger doing bodyshots off her areola

This makes it sound like this stranger is doing multiple bodyshots off one areola, which I find highly implausible. Could you please change that to "areolae"? It would help me sleep better at night. Thank you.

4:26 AM, April 14, 2005  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wow! So many witticisms in one fairly short blog! I'm on my 3rd Starbucks but it didn't help!

9:34 AM, May 03, 2005  

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