Fistful of dolor

One of the saddest phrases on the state we’re in is “hope is not a plan.” To which I would add “charm is not edible.” Three times in the last two months I have been lambasted by friends who took my raving recommendation on a restaurant run by a sweetheart in the West Village. The first report was politely lukewarm, the second vitriolic (one dish was described as “shit-on-a-shingle,” a waiter as “dumbshit”) and the third rather scarifying (amid  thoroughly underwhelming food and wine, waterbug falls on waitress, who is unflummoxed). I would go back and see if they have all lost their minds, but I know I would be snowed by the inedible factor. Someone chefly should be hollering Yelp.