The Modern: Paris Hilton's Allegorical Hoho Scan
Well first of all let me apologize for the delay in posting this. You have correctly surmised that Jules went hollering off into the high hills Fraulein Maria-style with unbridled, whooping joy following Frank’s potty article, which we’ll get to soon.
You may recall on Feb 23, Frank reviewed another Danny Meyers joint, Eleven Madison, which to me, was sort of like giving Nicky Hilton an STD screening: who cares about the boring, stable one with the solid rep?! We all want the dirt on the new, flashy sister.
Note that I would love link to the Eleven Madison review in my February Archives right about now, but my home computer is actually a 1953 jukebox with corn cob keyboard, and it doesn’t allow me to create links. But don’t shed a tear just yet! I'm saving up for a new one!
This will be great for my back. Can’t wait.
But—unlike Frank this week (for the most part)—I digress.
The Count seems to have realigned his trusty magnifying glass atop his placemat, giving a nice sketch of what they're actually COOKING at the Modern. This was particularly gratifying for me. When I stopped by the Modern I didn’t exactly get a feel for the breadth of their offerings, as our exchange was limited to my flashing the hostess a shit-smeared smile and her giving me a tuppence, a warm roll, and the address to an orphanage, but it smelled GREAT in there.
Jules, back out in the big world
And Frank’s experience?
“Picasso's ‘She-Goat’ kept entering and exiting my peripheral vision, as if grazing in an adjacent field. When I pivoted my head more purposefully, I could take in a Calder or a Miró, each one bathed in moody lighting.” The moody lighting, she-goats, and bathing sound great. I hope Frank's neck is ok.
"Beep boop bop! I will now pivot my head purposefully!"
“Backdrops for fine dining don't come any more mesmerizing than this.” Huh. You haven’t been to the the Magic Eye Kaleidoscope Acid Trip Inn, Frank? Put it on your list. It’s delicious until you hurl.
But anyway, the Modern has, aesthetically at least, successfully seduced the Count, even moved him to alliterative poetics, praising the sleek “furniture and flatware, water pitchers and water glasses, bud vases and butter pedestals...” What a perfect compliment to Gabriel Kreuther’s “overthought and overwrought” cuisine. Once Tweedledee brings the check we can hop on our tandem bike and get outta here.
But first, some erratic service: “A server struggled at the cheese cart, cutting strangely oversize and undersize portions. A hostess, connecting coats to their owners, looked at the label of one and asked-shouted, "Made in Honduras?!"
Wow. That is pretty phenomenal. The cheese guy I forgive—you can’t discriminate against the blind, even in knife-wielding professions, it’s just illegal, look it up. But reminding people how shitty their clothes are is a little awkward. I wonder if it was followed by a blithe “OMG Honduras? My family went to club med in Honduras we had the best diving coach his name was Paco do you KNOW HIMMMM?” Or whether it was more of a “OMG do you even know how much they even pay the toddlers to MAKE THE CLOTHES there, you monster???” type of thing.
“thanks a lot, Coat-Check Girl, you’ve really got our back.”
But more importantly, I’d like to personally thank Frank for the neological verb “to ask-shout” which I have giddily tucked in the folds of my gray matter for later use (right between “Latin declension of 'vagina'” and “ability to weave lanyard bracelets.”)
But that's not all he left us with: two little kissy marks on Danny Meyers' face.