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A nice day in Brooklyn
Heights is like living somewhere else. It could be anywhere, but it
could also be New York too. It has that dichotomy of character. Not
that there's any doubt when one strolls over to the promenade and
spies the very New York view. Otherwise, lost amongst the little shops
and cafes, it could be a small New England college town or coastal
village. Of course that's from an outsider's perspective; a guy who
lived in Manhattan for years and now lives in the Park Slope of New
Jersey (formerly the Upper West Side of New Jersey). My expectations,
therefore, were that I'd be served by some French national in hipster
glasses, eat some organic weirdness and go home with a new appreciation
for one of the foreign boroughs. What I got instead was an average
American meal served by a lazy waitress and some of the worst overall
service I've gotten at a restaurant since my horrendous run in with
Sotto
Cinque back in the mid-nineties. It's not to say my burger and
fries weren't tasty, but waiting like a million years for it left
such a bitter taste in my mouth that I couldn't taste the meatiness
and cheesiness and potato goodness above the yech. The place itself
feels like someone walked into a Home Depot Expo and said, "I'll
take it." That is to say that it didn't feel extraordinarily
unique, interesting or warm. I don't know. Maybe we hit it on an off
day, but that's an excuse I allow a lot of the joints in this survey.
Perhaps there just isn't enough competition to invigorate the status
quo. [MF]
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