Should we ever meet, I am going to make it a priority to buy you a monacle. 
I would wear the shit out of it too.
If you could keep from dropping it in your tea*.
*bourbon
If you ever feel that sympathy creeping in again, just look at this and you’ll be fine.
Diabetic strip club owner…lord help me I’m dying.
“You have a lot of cranial accessories”
Now there is a face that cries “Come hither!” to a fist.
Just have to salute your proper use of a Mitch Hedberg quote. Well done.
I forgot about the flip flops. How could I forget those. Why did you remind me.
VT’s pic is just one of many that makes ones knucklesitchfor that ghastlygoatee.
I learned from this thread that he was a contestant on Food Network Star or something…that actually explains a lot. He probably felt pressure to “amp up” the “rock and roll” so that he can stand out from the other contestants and be seen as full of “personality” and “energy”. I guess.
I don’t know. DDD reviewed Keagan’s in Indian Rocks Beach, FL, a restaraunt just down the road from me. Even considering his raves, the food never raises above “meh,” and often submerges to “WTF” – plain mashed potatoes with chili powder being an example. Kind of makes me wonder about some of the other restaraunts that look so good with editing.
ETA: Keagan’s parking lot is always full now, though. I assume because of DDD.
Does that sort of appearance appeal to people? To me, he just resembles a clown (and not the good kind).
For those who like a bit of description, the NY Times sales team hosted a party at the same restaurant the very night the review hit.
It was planned 2 months in advance.
I don’t get why the NY Times denied this at first, and I don’t see why they feel the need to justify themselves by making sure we know it was planned 2 months in advance.
It is fine to go to eat at a bad restaurant. When I was young, I ate nasty gritty burgers at 3 am Saturday night from a restaurant so grimy they actually called their trademark meal a ‘garbage plate’. Doesn’t mean the food was good just because I ate it.
Doesn’t mean the critic wasn’t being honest about his experience, just because the sales team ate there.
I think they denied it initally because the spokesperson didn’t know about the ad sales department’s event. It’s a big company.
Early reports said the NY Times had a staff party at the restaurant, and they didn’t. I suppose you could argue that that would’ve cast doubt on their motives in the review and suggested they were going over-the-top just to get attention. What actually happened was the sales team hosted some clients there in a preplanned event.
To paraphrase Anthony Bourdain, he’s basically a live-action Poochie.
Ah, A A Gill. You do not disappoint. “The cramped tables are set with labially pink cloths, which give it a colonic appeal and the awkward sense that you might be a suppository.”
Also, the staff bulge out of their jackets with “the meaty malevolence of gouty buffalo”. It’s fun to imagine saying that out loud. “The meaty malevolence of gouty buffalo”. The English language is great. It has words like *the *and *and *and *it *and *then *and so forth, and it also has *fetid *and *oleaginous *- and that’s just individual words. Put the together and, ye Gods, the possibilities are endless.
Whatever you may think of Guy Fieri, (whom I had never heard of until that game show he was on a couple of years back, but clearly his persona and affectations are that of a champion caliber uber-dooshbag) Anthony Bourdain is a sad, pathetic fucking joke of a man.
Constantly, endlessly, shamelessly blathering on and on about the Bad Ol’ Days, back when he was a edgy, desperate junkie, with a passion for Cambodian heroin, back alley razor-blade fights, hardcore punk music and the perfectly prepared hollandaise sauce drizzled over blanched baby asparagus, served with pan-seared monkfish ever so lightly glazed with a maple-ginger reduction…:rolleyes:
Bourdain is a fat, emasculated old man who still fancies himself as a bad ass, clearly having no idea how laughable he appears to the rest of the culinary world.
Bourdain may be an asshole, but he’s my kind of asshole. And I’d rather knock back a drink with him in Ghana, dining on rice and fish, listening to him wax heroine-addictecal about his edgy youth than to spend 2 minutes with Poochie, listening to him shouting “MONEY!” every time he slurps something into his bristly maw.
I’m rather fond of “gray, suppurating renal brick,” myself. And that photo captures so much - the bright pink tablecloths, the overwhelming brownness, and the bulging waitstaff.