Huh, wha–? Sorry, I dozed off for a second there. Oh yeah, I was just about to rant my rant in retaliation to those two ranty rants. Why, you ask? Good question— seeing as DUH– nobody gives a fucking rat’s ass about anybody’s stupid, self-important, self-indulgent, sophmoric, idiotic fucking rant.
But hey, I’m just gonna throw my two cents out there, ‘cuozz— well, why not? It’s the internet age! That’s just how we roll. CLEARLY, any two-bit douchebag dipshit with a keyboard and a free Starbucks WiFi connection can pontificate superfluously about whatever the hell they please. And today, FINALLY, is my turn. Hooray!
Firstly, to Steve Cuozzo. Shut the hell up, you clueless, ignorant, obnoxious, pompous, obsequious, slimy TOOL SHED. Oh my Lord, reading your articles (on those very very very rare occasions which I do) makes me want to put a gun to my head, realizing that you actually still have a job as a journalist, because there genuinely remains a substantial contingent of morons out there who buy into your dim-witted drivel.
Not that I give a damn about a single thing or person you mentioned, but did you seriously just criticize certain chefs and restaurateurs for being in too many places at once, while extolling the virtues of not one, but two Jean-Georges restaurants that he opened within weeks of each other while simultaneously overseeing multiple outlets all over the world? Do you not see how hypocritical and downright laughable you sound?
Also, as a looongtime laborer within the NYC Food & Beverage industry, I can inform you (yeah, that’s right— you’re so ignorant you probably have yet to apprehend this) the fine dining industry in NYC for the most part, HATES NY POST-READING DINERS. Ask anybody. A bad review from the NY Post is like a gift from heaven; if it keeps out the arrogant, unsophisticated, self-entitled jerkoffs who read the NY Post, then Hallelujah! That’s half the bane of running a restaurant in NYC extinguished right there.
Pssst, Cuozzo. Oh, if you could only be "on the inside," as I am, and could hear the things that are said about you and your ilk, by the very same people who run to shake your hand upon your arrival. You’d probably be so traumatized, you’d need lithium for life. Do yourself a favor and "retire" to go write your great American novel already, could you? You make us sick, you freak.
Next, to Keith McNally. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really? Don’t you have anything better to fucking do? Shouldn’t you be out scavenging distressed mirrors and wall tiles for the inevitable Chinese next-incarnation of your "genius-brilliance" or something? As a person who once used to work for you (Yeah, that’s right. Boo!) I can assure you that Frank Bruni got at least ONE thing right in his entire ill-conceived food-writing career, and that’s: You are not a nice man.
Your greatest skill is comprised wholly of your astoundingly systematic ass-kissing of those you deem worthy. Your second greatest skill is merely the fact that you’re only about half as maniacal as your loopy, rampageous brother. And the notion that you think these asinine indignant blusterings of yours are actually beneficial to your business as a whole is mind-blowing. Newsflash, idiot: The reason Pulino’s sucks such a fat dick is because you brought that cheezy icky clientele of yours to yourself.
Ha ha hah— go on now, Keith, run along and pen some other retaliatory unctuous rant e-mail that panders to those pizza-loving clowns. Just remember before you waste your energy— it’s still not going to bring Anna and Sir Anthony Hopkins looking for a banquette in that shithole.
Yours Truly and Sincerely,