Open Kitchens, Open Wounds
Finnicky Grandpa Frank just figured out how to use all these newfangled toilets, and now they’re mucking up his peaceful dining experience with all these raucous, open kitchens! Next thing you know, saloon whores will start reading books and wearing pants while they eff you.
The official J.M. Coetzee fan club/ bunch of hookers.
Open kitchens: sometimes it’s for showmanship, sometimes it’s for space, sometimes it’s a personal offense to one Frank P. Bruni. Let me explain:
In horror movies, after a group of kids accidentally 82% kills an innocent fisherman and dumps his putative corpse into a ravine, estuary, etc., the kids emerge from the woods all covered in stains, clapping the dirt off their hands and whistling happily as they collectively repress their secret trauma and attempt to do normal high school things like poon each other and listen to rap.
“Right foot my vagina!!”
But as they emerge from the woods, some twatty older sister figure spies them. And then later, when one of the guilty teens drops his tray in the cafeteria or uncharacteristically snaps at someone, the twatty sister, in response to these mounting indices, will peer in really closely and intensely at one of these guilty kids and say, “What happened in the woods that night?”
And that’s how I feel about Frank Bruni and Café Gray. As the twatty older sister in this situation, I feel I have to peer closely at Frank and ask, what happened at Café Gray that night, Frank? Did a server drop a hot crotch in your coffee?
Hot crotch! WELL I NEVER!
Bruni’s original (pre-Digest) review, subtly entitled, “Prime Location, Obstructed View,” clearly didn’t get the anger out of his system entirely, ‘cause he’s back for more:
“[Gray] Kunz had put his open kitchen - and thus himself - smack between diners and broad windows overlooking Central Park, obstructing the view and sending the message that the kitchen's activity was more engrossing than any panorama.”
Next, suggestively-placed paragraph:
“I think people have created open kitchens without any consideration for how imposing it is," said Marc Meyer, the chef and co-owner of Five Points in NoHo. "I think it's been overdone."
Nice. Whatever you do, people, DO NOT
Because he will come after you. Yes, that means you, Erykah. And you, Lobotomized Irish Girl.
Less of a deal-breaker with B-style but nonetheless irking to him, is the interactive showmanship of the open kitchen, which he ACTUALLY makes sound like a weekend in Miami:
“Now you are primed to ooh as chefs simmer and aah as they sautée. You are prodded to watch the sausage being made (not literally, but almost) and feel the heat.” Watch the sausage and feel the heat? You don’t have to prod ME. I’ll watch it all day!
My personal ESPN.
Well, Grandpa Frank, hopefully you can find someplace nice and peaceful and quiet, where no one blocks your view.
May I suggest Camaroon?