I am waiting for Bernard. He should have been here at 10:30, and it's already 10:32. Something is wrong. Bernard is never late. When I'm even a tiny bit slow in getting to our daily game, Bernard has ... [+]
Not long ago, I spent a week reviewing the city's finest steak-houses, one medium-rare, truffle-crusted-wagyu after another. The week before was seafood week. More lobster bibs, crustacean claws, and lemony finger bowls than even I cared to count.
When one is young, it seems impossible to imagine one's joie de vivre ever dampening. But even the sharpest knife is dulled by the gristle of life. And even a food critic might grow hungry for something they cannot quite put to words.
And so it was with no small dash of ennui that, wandering through Park Slope to some osteria or other, I pl