Writer Sprout

Friday, October 28, 2005

At least there's sleep

In short, my initiation into Corp Amer is proving more tedious than I'd imagined. Nooooo time. None. But I'll make some this w/e, dangit.

M suggested I post the following rejection. (I'm still hunting.)

Dear Closed Restaurant,

My beau and I (no, we’re not French) recently moved to New York City from Seattle. Wretched humidity and smelly F train notwithstanding, we really like it here. The history, the culture, the arts scene, the nightlife... The hare to Seattle's tortoise, you might say.

But notice how I left "food" off the list? Your fault. With the barring of your doors and the slapping up of that "closed for renvations (sic), reopen in three weeks" sign, you ruined food for me, or in the very least, dinner. You also lied, but we'll get to that later.

I discovered you about a month after moving into my Gramercy Park sublet. What a find you were! Granted--and don't take this personally--your interior decorator should have been relegated to coat closets, or maybe grade school cafeterias considering his/her fondness for bench seating and laminated particle board, but it's not like you were jonesing for a shout-out in Dwell, so who cared about that god-awful fluorescent lighting. Not me, not really. No, what really mattered was the food, and by food I mean wings. Buffalo wings, chickens' lives spared. Before you, I'd only sampled the selection at my local supermarket: Morningstar Farms, Gardenburger, you know. The texture of these varieties, though, doesn't feel very good in my mouth. Texture's important, and you had it down. Not only was your "meat" succulent and credible, it had "bones"! What a surprise, the first time I tore into that soy-based conglomerate, the surrounding skin tangy, substantial. Then, what the--? as my vegetarian teeth met a substance hard and--plastic. A fake bone! With that, you had me forever. Fake wings for dinner every night forever. Too bad forever extended all of two weeks. Damn you. Don't get me wrong, it was a fine two weeks. But had I known about your pending departure (temporary my ass), I’d have stuffed myself full of so many "wings"as to induce a permanent wing-aversion. Over you forever. Damn hindsight.

Three weeks came and went. Soon we'd reached the six-week mark, eight weeks, ten, and still no reopen. There was definitely some renovating going on, I give you that, but had I known... oh, damn you! A full three months later, you reopened all right. Only, it wasn't you, but another "charming" Italian restaurant--just what this city needs. Slap on your hand for misleading your devotees with vague, tricky language! "Closed for good, mediocre Italian restaurant-takeover pending" is what that sign should have read.

Since then I've all but given up. A handful of ill-fated attempts have come in the form of glorified fish sticks and stringy, blandly dressed seitan. No tang, no bones, no cred. Dinner, thanks, won't ever live up to the lofty precedent you set. I'm researching. I'll find the people who ran you and I'll have that recipe. Until then, cluck cluck.

Hostility equals love,
Kristen