You know what I’m talking about. The kind of place with a meticulously crafted rustic chic look, where painted old window frames hang from the walls like art, where the decor is a vibrant updated take on retro stylings, where the waitresses all wear french-braid headbands and wooden earrings, where they do this to the coffee, or whatever this drink is supposed to be. If I ever eat at another restaurant whose entire budget was spent on interior decorators, I shall give up eating out forever, and spend the rest of my disposable income on cook books. That’s right, restauranteurs of the world. Shape up, or I’ll spend my literal tens of dollars elsewhere! I like trying new food, but I’ll make it myself if new food otherwise means eating after place after place that looks vomitously cute like this. You might think, Oh come on, that place doesn’t look foofier than any other trendy yuppie place, but trust me, this photo does a grave disservice to its cuteness. The place is so girly, I walked in there and thought Lilith Fair was about to break out at any moment.
Please, for the love of cheap scotch, enough already. I’m not saying we should all be sitting on stools with vinyl seat covers, bellying up to a formica counter top at the local greasy spoon, but when your most palatable menu item is cuteness, I feel like I could have stayed at my apartment, which is also adorable, but without cues taken directly from Every Annoying Restaurant on Earth Magazine, plus the chef will make my food as spicy as I want. (Seriously, the chef at my apt is cray cray; bitch’ll put peppers in anything.)
Once upon a time, a kindly stranger took me to a place I knew I would love right away when, because instead of being attacked with pretense before I even went inside, I was greeted with this. Oh, thank you so much, gods, this is all I ever wanted. When I walked inside, there was nothing but polished hardwood, an amazing bar with an amazing whiskey selection, and stupidly good food. No colorful lighting, no army of designers, no elaborate ordering process. Just good food, good whiskey, and outstanding service. This is all I ever want in a restaurant, creatively designed pastries be damned. Cute is nice sometimes, but I swear there was an ordinance passed in 2005 mandating that every restaurant in all majorish cities must ensure cuteness first, then maybe food quality or something. Enough.
Next time someone takes me to dinner, like the biggest ingrate in the world, I will immediately ask, “Thank you, but is the restaurant cute?” I am actually literally dying (okay, not literally) of cutesy wutesy bullshit overload. Every time I go to a restaurant like that, I feel like I should order the rarest steak they’ll serve, take it home, and eat it with my hands in my garage.
