Filipina maid needed. Must share closet.

Call me cynical, but I also wonder about the slipping standards at The Daily Goliath. I tasted some sparkling tea at the Chelsea Market that was endorsed by the powerful one, and trust me: You would be laughed out of your own cocktail party if you poured it. Most recently the wielder of the unicorn horn touted the food shops at the old Limelight as a “temple for food.” I accidentally wound up on the street where they fester and stopped in, after spotting the “peak season” produce market outside that looked like the Food Shitty compared with the Greenmarket just a few blocks away. (Variety is never a good sign with fruits and vegetables, especially in a region still waking up to asparagus only.) It was a depressing warning of how cynical whoever the rental agent was. I walked in and right back out — the place had a Rouse-to-the-max feel, like one of the many incarnations of the South Street Seaport, and seemed about as removed from the New Amsterdam Market as Smithfield is from Flying Pigs. Someone needs to put down that pinkie. And all the press releases.