The Fangs of a Restaurant Critic

This is the kind of writing that makes The New Yorker such a pleasure to read. In the magazine's April 5 issue, there is a review of Le Caprice, a restaurant in the Pierre Hotel. The magazine's critic, Lila Byock, calls Le Caprice "a stuffy take on a sceney London institution." She continues:

As on "Made Men," however, meticulous appearances mask trouble; Lutece this is not.

While you're waiting to be seated, you may be tempted by one of those nostalgic cocktails. Don't be: they're as cloying as the Disney ballads tinkling out of the piano.

... On recent visits, [service] ranged from hostile to bumbling to non-existent. After checking in with the host, a diner was chased down by a suspicious employee who seemed to feel she didn't belong. A bartender recited, unmprompted, the ingredients of every cocktail on the menu, as if to prove he knew them.

A waiter, preoccupied with a former "Saved by the Bell" star at a nearby table, briefly materialized only to sweep away a third-full bottle of wine. When asked to leave it, he froze. "It's not a scam!" he protested. At these prices, one might beg to disagree.

Bristling at Broccoli

Let me put my cards right on the table.

I have never been a fan of broccoli. I'm willing to eat it, but I prefer it doused with something like a Hollandaise sauce or stir-fried in an olive oil-curry mixture.

I guess that defeats the point if the goal is to eat broccoli because it's so healthy and rich in vitamins.

I'm reminded of the New Yorker cartoon from many decades ago. A mother urges her child to eat the broccoli on his plate. "It's broccoli, dear," she explains.

The boy's reply: "I say it's spinach, and I say the hell with it."

Ironically, spinach is a green veggie that I'm quite fond of.