Down at the mortgaged Taj, meanwhile, it’s increasingly clear the last competent copy editors have turned out the lights. In the death knell posing as a Metro feature that was the At Vermilion agglomeration of words, the steak that queered the deal with critics was either a skirt or a strip — depends on how far you could read. Even so, I’d take 16 anal editors on Eighth Avenue for the one at a propaganda catapulter who let a description of chicken confit go through as “gossamer.” One thing schmaltz never is is filmy.