Go read this. It’s FoTotD Nick Paumgarten’s latest piece of brilliance in The New Yorker, and it’s a perfectly paced thriller about a restaurant that doesn’t exist.
There’s this guy–that’s how all these stories start–named Damon. He has a last name, but it’s tough to spell and it’s late. Let’s pretend Damon’s last name is Dash. There you go: Damon Dash has a restaurant named Damon Dash in Upstate New York, and he’s taken all the foodie bullshit to its illogical endpoint. The food at Damon Dash is not locally sourced, which generally means within 100 miles: all of it comes from on the property. Like: the stuff that grows in the yard.
There is also no bathroom: you are asked to poop on whatever crop is not growing well, usually the rutabaga. (Rutabaga is a slothful and indolent plant.)
And you can’t get in. The new hot restaurant in New York City is Le Coucou; you can’t get in there, either, but in a different way: if you want to eat there at 5 o’clock on a Monday, then you can get in, but you can’t go on Saturday night. Not Damon Dash, the joint in Upstate: every single reservation is taken for the next decade. If you ask real nice, and give him $400, then Damon might just open up the place special for you on an off-night.
It helps if you’re a big-time Food Person. Perhaps if you’re a star. Lyle Alzado has eaten there. Grace Pennington. Bronson Pinchot and Mark Linn-Baker ended a years-long feud in the table by the left. Calls to the stars’ representatives went unanswered.
Go read about Damon Dash, a restaurant that may or may not be located on Route 77.