I look forward to the NY Times restaurant review every Thursday. It’s one of the few days I go to a coffee shop and really take time to relax, drink my coffee, read the newspaper and enjoy the vibe. This morning, however, was different. The restaurant review was so unexpectedly scathing I sprayed my coffee across the patio. Sorry, Barista.
Here are some highlights from Diner’s journal from Sam Sifton’s review of Imperial No. Nine –
- stacked high in the middle of a vast moor of culinary mediocrity
- But on this night the tuna was old. It was not rancid. It was not totally inedible. But it had that spongy funk. It was enough to raise eyebrows.
- Clammy in temperature, with a nasty aftertaste, it overpowered the frozen coconut layered on top of it. Octopus legs in a mixture of soy and sofrito danced one evening at the divide between soft and mealy. On another they were decidedly on the far side of the line. They were pillowy in the sense of the word that describes the taste of a pillow.
- And lobes of dismal-flavored sea urchin served over thick lardo and heavy toast were just dreadful: the eighth band after Nirvana to write loud-soft-loud music and call it new.
You get the idea.
I’ve always said it is easy to write a really good review or a really bad review. It’s the average ones that can be the biggest struggle. I had a feeling Mr. Sifton blew this one right out the door. Here is a link to the entire review. Fun to read.