Cendrillon: I Almost Entrechat Myself
Frank was promenading around SoHo the other day when he fell upon a peasant in rags wearing one glass slipper and decided that he’d be her savior. You know, maybe not MARRY her but definitely give her some Listerine FreshStrips and a new pinafore:
“Cendrillon should be attracting many more fans and much more interest than it does. It certainly shouldn't be only about one-sixth full, as it was during the first of the many recent times I dined there, or one-fifth full, as it was the third.”
How appropriate it is that Cendrillon, the name of Romy Doratan’s Filipino restaurant, refers to a French ballet about Cinderella! The whole review is a sort of Cinderella story, and I’ve always thought of Frank as a little lexical ballerina--
And by the time he gets to the end of this particular review, a few pretty glissades and a battement later, you may have entrechat yourself.
Brunisms of the Week...
"Cendrillon's SoHo location and vaguely hip, loftlike décor would seem to augur Asian food tailored for a broad audience, which often means potent gusts of sweetness, pointed blasts of heat, a deluge of coconut milk, a riot of peanuts."
AAAAH ze sans culottes have breached ze sac!!! Bon dieu!
No but seriously, remember what happened when green peas rioted?
This kid remembers.
"[Cendrillon] doesn't serve dishes that are merely anagrams of what's available a block or two in any direction."
Good thing, too. I don’t want Oprahs Dandy Man Tit any more than I want Nasty Random Pad Thai. And as painful as Vegetables in Garlic Sauce can be, it’s nothin’ like Snug Near-Green Sciatic Balls syndrome, which is anything but snug.
Green Sciatic Balls alert!!
“Cendrillon probably uses as much vinegar per ounce of food as any restaurant in Manhattan”
Well, I wouldn't go that far. Frank has clearly not been to Balsamic Rita’s Pucker Shack in a while.
Rita’s world famous key lime pie.
"Cendrillon may not be easy or sexy. But it's daring, different and a sure remedy for the malady, too widespread these days, of dining déjà vu."
Sure, she’s “pretty” ‘cause she’s “different.” If there are any ugly young children out there reading this, it must sound familiar to you. You've probably frequently been told you were different, just the way an uncle will pat his flaxen-haired retard of a nephew on the head and call him "unique." But instead of entrusting Cendrillon to a special care facility, Frank charges us, the dining public, to be kind to little Cendrillon: "food lovers" have a "real investment in the survival of this unconventional place.”
In other words, Frank backs off slowly, arms raised: I’M not gonna marry the princess. But you guys should. She’s great! I mean, she's not perfect ("Admittedly, there are a few too many unremarkable dishes on the menu, and the service can veer from poignantly attentive to epically absent-minded") but someone should keep her afloat. Here! Look! Two pretty stars for a pretty lady!
GOTTA GO! Bon apetit!