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, June 15, 2005

Prem-on Thai: What-is Goingon?

I'll get to Stanton Social shortly, but first...I was tossing and turning all last night, unable to sleep without addressing Frank's Diners Journal. Also, I got drunk at a math tournament and ended up spooning someone with a protractor in his back pocket, which wasn't very comfortable.

Not smart, Jules. Not. Smart.

But on to Prem-on Thai:

There’s a little term that we “thespians” (and yes, I’m making finger-quotes) use frequently when talking about our “scenework” (read: “giggling poofery”), and it’s called “justification.”

E.g., I can’t just walk on stage wearing a bra made of deli ham, have a conversation about the weather, and leave without, at some point, addressing my ham bra. Perhaps that explanation will come gradually in what, again, we “actors” (foundation-wearing nancychildren) call a “slow reveal,” or perhaps it will be explained right away (“Ah! It’s ol’ HAM BRA MARISSA!” for example) Either way, you have to ACKNOWLEDGE it, or people get weirded out.


Hey HAMLET, what's with the accessories?? Spill the beans!

Which is why it’s so fucking WEIRD, that Frank wrote his entire Diner’s Journal on Friday in the form of A PRAYER, for NO ostensible reason:

“Let us now praise the crispy fish, which has swum and sizzled its way onto the menus of so many Asian restaurants in our fair city, determined to prove that seafood can taste as ecstatically naughty as anything else.”
(Well, sexually-charged prayer, of course. It is the diabolically erotic, wandering-around-his-chateau-with-his-paisley-robe-open Marquis de Bruni, after all.)

“Let us focus on the sea bass at Prem-on Thai, a finned and scaled vehicle for a kaleidoscope of flavors, an indulgent case in point."

Finned and scaled vehicle. Always evoking half-naked ladies, huh, Frank?

Also? Frank gets a virtual Dr. Scholls-clog-tap on the knuckles from my Fifth Grade English teacher for using the kaleidoscope metaphor, the ONLY cliché that was just plain off limits in the classroom, along with “Dumps like a Truck” and “Wigger,” of course.

Ah, Sisqo, sweet bard, your sun-like rays of genius were not to fall in our schoolyard...

Finally, Pervy Pastor Frank gives a shout out to the sexual chemistry of Brad and Angelina (I’ve stopped making fingerquotes and am now jabbing my uvula with two fingers while making an exaggerated “barf” face) and slams his prayer book shut with another bawdy incantation, this one about getting shitcocked: “Let us not contemplate the island of unconsciousness on which too many [Islandtinis] might strand us.”

Amen? I still don't get why this review was in prayer form.
Maybe I'm just stupid.

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