Connerries

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm just a caveman. I fell on some ice and was later thawed by some of your scientists. Your world frightens and confuses me! Sometimes when I fly to Europe on the Concorde, I wonder, am I inside some sort of giant bird? Am I gonna be digested? I don't know, because I'm a caveman, and that's the way I think! When I'm courtside at a Knicks game, I wonder if the ball is some sort of food they're fighting over. When I see my image on the security camera at the country club, I wonder, are they stealing my soul? I get so upset, I hop out of my Range Rover, and run across the fairway to to the clubhouse, where I get Carlos to make me one of those martinis he's so famous for, to soothe my primitive caveman brain. But whatever world you're from, I do know one thing -

I know that Frank Bruni's journalistic judgment, if not integrity, is seriously suspect! When I read his three (F'ing) star review of Country, I wonder, "Did he eat at the same place as me?"
And, of course, the answer is not really. You see, over the course of my multiple meals at the same establishment, I experienced no "flawlessly crunchy skin," perfectly succulent meat," or any dish "braised to a lusciousness." I did experience "sucky service," "caustic cauliflower," and a captain who volunteered details of Bruni's visit last Tuesday as cold compensation for a menu and space that was navigated with as much ease as dinghy on a trans-Atlantic journey.
Of course, my photograph does not hang in the kitchen of Country or any other kitchen (save my own.) However, Frank's does. Well, actually, many restaurants refrain from displaying his likeness because the critic is so well known that most seasoned employees recognize him on sight. In the event that the individual is blind, they can still find the Waldo of wordsmiths via vox as FB notoriously calls restaurants for follow-up information himself. One Danny Meyer employee futilely pining for a re-review of Eleven Madison Park explained to me that the trick is recognizing his advance men.
To paraphrase a legendary Hemingway-Fitzgerald exchange, the result is that Bruni is served differently than you or I.
The ensuing question is whether this is a bad thing. From an ethical angle, the answer is resoundingly affirmative. New York magazine's literary laurels largely stem from confusion with the New Yorker, but even in semi-retirement, Gael Greene still refuses to be photographed without a costume. Hell, (s)he's Pat, we don't even know gender. (A lot of people ask, "Who's he? Or she?"... It's time for androgyny!) Of course, the les garcons du Clermont-Ferrand hold their anonymity so tight that following publications, Rushdie felt safer than Remy. A professor at the Columbia School of Journalism explains that in investigative reporting, one should constantly be aware of biased information fed to the press, but identify themselves after the preliminary stages for the purpose of response. (Said approach sound quite a bit like the Michelin method.)
In defense of Frank, it is difficult to hold his position and remain anonymous. But, you can offer our palates something more than lip service!
Admittedly, we must note that on occasion, the Times' tactics work out; Urena was worthy of both stars and their congenial, familial atmosphere involves in-depth interaction with the customers precluding a "hardy" meal faceless amongst the maddening crowd. The concept of the small restaurant with a chef working both sides of the house predates Careme.
However, Zakarian is not Careme, the Carlton is not Urena, and most of Gotham, restaurants included, is not small.
Congrats to Country, but, perhaps, the staff should remove Frank's manhood from their mouths long enough to taste their own food; the other 7,999,999 potential customers in NYC might enjoy some improvements.


RIP Phil.