Bar & Restaurant Reviews

If you're looking to end a relationship with a little control freak shithead, who's completely hung up on his WASP upbringing and harbors an almost religious veneration for the sanctity of hipster New York, then there's no better way to go out than by making a scene at a trendy restaurant like Peasant.

Matt's such an insipid fuck I don't even know why we're still dating. My goal tonight is to bring us one big step closer to the far more pleasant world of not-dating. I hooked him easily enough; Peasant has earned a reputation as a hot rustic NoLiTa restaurant with great food and fabulous décor.

We're seated at the long comfortable banquet that lines the walls, the other diners are as trendy as the atmosphere of the place itself. Matt doesn't suspect anything, but then one of the benefits of being an egocentric fucklet-bordering-on-solipsist is that you don't waste time speculating about the concept of other people having thoughts.

He likes the atmosphere, he likes the table setting, he picks up the menu, he is surprised, and I'm not. The menu contains two pages of dishes written in Italian with no description or even any hint as to whether the items are entrees, soups, or forms of medieval torture. You might as well be looking at a phone book, the menu is that useful. I can't understand why this restaurant plays weird head games with the customers, and I don't care. All I know is this is going to drive Matt nuts.

He stares at the menu for a few minutes attempting simultaneously to fathom what he's seeing, pretend that he understands any of it, thinking of ways to stall time, and desperately trying to figure out how he should react . Got you, you smug bitch. "What--" he starts, and before he has a chance to finish his sentence the waiter shows up to ask if we need help with the menu.

"No, we're okay," I respond, then immediately order two dishes that a friend recommended. Matt, becoming visibly agitated, sputters some confused noises. The waiter, who's clearly used to this reaction, calmly offers to explain the entire menu to him. Matt can't figure out how I've already ordered, and blushes while the waiter proceeds to run down every item on the menu, in detail, from memory. Of course this is a terrible way to be presented a menu and Matt has to ask the waiter to repeat the second appetizer selection, clarify the fish, and explain "the confit thing" again.

The waiter collects the useless menus and disappears, and I casually fire the line I've been saving up all night. "Wow, so you're a little uptight tonight."

Matt's agitation turns to anger as he demands to know what that's supposed to mean. I revel in the fact that he's glancing nervously out of the corners of his eyes to see if he knows anyone in the crowded dining room. I lazily suggest that he could have just ordered without having to make the poor waiter run through the entire menu then revisit the details. His neck is blotchy now... this is fun. "What do you mean, how the hell am I supposed to know what anything on the menu was?"

I casually suggest that a lot of the hot new restaurants are offering less descriptions of meals; and follow that up with some bullshit about the trend is for diners not to be so concerned about the unimportant details and just enjoy the experience. Then I express my surprise that he didn't already know this from reading "that article" in Wallpaper three months ago.

My duck confit served over white beans arrives as Matt explodes into a shrill rant about everything he hates about me, everything he hates about my friends, and I experience a weird flashback to high school science class and the satisfaction of successfully leading a mouse through a cardboard maze. The mouse got a slice of Kraft American Cheese. Matt gets to rant and bitch and turn purple over steaming osso buco. I get a nice gnocchi with wild mushrooms and entertaining memories for days to come.

chumwater

August 22, 2004

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