Vong: the Gettysburg of Reviews
Technically, Frank panned Jean-Georges’ Vong this week (one star), although the pan was accompanied by a MERCILESS SPANKING of Vongerichten’s Mercer Kitchen.
Not that I’m counting, but Frank devoted about 410 words to actual reviewee Vong, and about 480 to lateral casualty Mercer Kitchen. It’s not like Frank just threw the baby out with the bathwater here, a casual take-down necessary for a larger point. It’s more like he threw the baby out with the prom dress, a deliberate chuckage of two equally unwanted excrescences.
Live it up, Brianna! There’ll be no more tulle at Valley State!
No amount of cold showering could erase from my mind Frank’s 4-star confirmation of Vongerichten’s flagship, Jean-Georges, this past April. It was steamy; I think, although I am not certain, that the term “my turgid jibbly bits” was used at least once.
Frank tosses his former flame to the wind in service of his 3rd grade-style book report thesis: Chefs with empires may hold them together at the core, but they fall apart at the fringes.
My 3rd grade book report thesis: "Johnny Tremain, What a Fag."
“…Jean-Georges Vongerichten shows that today’s globe-trotting, genre-straddling, hyperextended superchef can still create memorable … meals. You need only visit the restaurants Perry St. and Jean Georges to believe.
But can a chef stamp his name as wide and far as Mr. Vongerichten has and still make magic at the older as well as the newer establishments, at the fringe players as well as the flagship? You need only visit Mercer Kitchen and Vong to doubt.”
Frank uses 2nd person narration to really put us in his shoes as he sinks into the bog of terribleness which is Mercer Kitchen. But reading what he ate, I was worried for Frank’s health:
“Your pea soup doubles as a salt quarry.”
Frank: "C’I have s’more Pellegrino? I’m so dehyhy."
“Your hamachi sashimi comes with two incongruously gargantuan bread sticks, which Babe Ruth could have used to hit homers.”
The only thing worse than eating wood…
Well, lets just say Frank spent hours on the toilet crapping this Stradivarius.
Just kidding. But speaking of hours on the toilet:
“The mussels in your seafood platter don’t taste right.”
“A pork chop with a hot-cool chili glaze requires the incisors of a jungle cat.”
And if that didn’t knock his precious pearly whites out of alignment,
“Come dessert, you almost chip your tooth on one of the hard, frozen strawberries in a deconstructed ice cream sandwich.”
So not only is the poor Count in fever sweats and totally parched...
He now looks like this.
Having bravely suffered the perils of Mercer Kitchen, Frank has the right to publish some scathing of sarcasm; but he really gets personal, and then delivers the Insult of Insults:
“…you question the point of Mr. Vongerichten’s involvement, beyond the cachet it lends the restaurant and the money it presumably brings him.”
Frank, you capricious bedmate! Jean-Georges falls from tender lover to ice-chasing merchandiser.
And add insult to insult:
Mercer Kitchen “is the SoHo version of an Applebee’s.” YOUCH
What does that even mean? Even within a metaphor, it’s hard to apply class to Applebees. I mean, what’s the Swarovsky version of an owl pellet?
From the Rockefeller Collection of Louis Comfort Tiffany's rare Golden Dumps.
And now for the review! Did you forget this wasn’t a review of Mercer Kitchen?
Frank calls Vong “tired” and evokes the exotisme of the go-go 90’s:
“It’s been around since 1992, when oversized palm fronds still counted as theatrical Asian décor, the pairing of sautéed foie gras with mango was considered novel, and the galangal in a chicken and coconut milk soup seemed exotic. Bryan Miller gave it three stars back then.”
I can barely remember the ’90s.
“Who’s Brian Miller?” wail a chorus of school children.
Alright, so Vong is a little better, but at this point he’s spent himself on Mercer Kitchen and is a little “tired” himself. But he ends by taking Jean-Georges to task, almost defending his own hard criticism:
“And shouldn’t Mr. Vongerichten be called on this? His reputation is attached as firmly to Vong and to Mercer Kitchen as to restaurants that undoubtedly absorb more of his worry. It’s the same lure, but it’s no guarantee. It’s no guarantee at all.”
What IS a guarantee, is that Jean Georges is at home, listening to Air Supply and crying into a handkerchief embroidered “FB,” wailing “He said he loved me! He said it was forever! WAAAAAH”