Pet Goat: It’s what’s for dinner

Distillation is not good for intellectual flyweights. Panchito comes off as even more of a mental gnat when summarized in The Week I just caught up to, a reprise of his mockery of the Big O for not choosing a more manly, more gutsy restaurant for date night. Is it really incomprehensible to a guy who has had years of on-the-job eating that Blue Hill serves food that is not just cerebral? That’s as unintentionally revealing as a theater critic admitting he thought no one could possibly enjoy August Wilson. He really is the Chimp of restaurant reviewers, and thank Claiborne’s ghost he can soon stick a pretzel in it and be done.