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This venerable Grand
Central classic has more going for it than just location. It has the
mysterious Grand Central whispering gallery right out front, as well
as decades and decades of loyal besuited customers--one of whom I
know would literally live on their shrimp cocktail if given a choice.
The most distinguishing features of the restaurant are the arched
brick domes that are both distracting in their coolness and worrisome
in their similarity to some sort of 1950s subterranean bomb shelter.
I spent half of my time there waiting for Bert the "duck and
cover" Turtle to come out to his little nuclear holocaust ditty.
And now it can be told: oysters taste like cold post-nasal drip to
me. Anything that can only be eaten by swallowing it whole (for fear
that chewing it would disgust the eater to the point of barfing) isn't
something I want to be sticking in my mouth. If I squirt lemon on
my food and it tries to run away, someone better be sticking that
thing back in the oven. Myself, I went for a nice piece of fish, as
someone else was footing what would be a pretty pricey lunch bill.
As with most old school joints like this the preparation is straight
forward with relatively few frills. There aren't any fancy sauces
or anything--at least on what I ordered. Perhaps I ordered incorrectly,
but mine was certainly passable, but nothing to write home about.
My co-workers ordered an army of different oysters, which they pretended
to like. They then got the twenty-seven-dollar lobster roll (which
seems like way too much to pay for something that comes on a hot dog
roll) and claimed it was the "best ever." Granted, they
ate like twenty sea slugs each before wolfing down the mayonnaise-laden
snacks. Regardless of the food, I'm sure your sheltered relatives
from Connecticut or Duchess County would think this place was pretty
snazzy. You could load them up on booze and raw sea snot and throw
their bloated bodies right on the train back home. [MF]
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