Donald J. Trump
Has anyone looked at the really poor numbers of @VanityFair Magazine. Way down, big trouble, dead! Graydon Carter (VF-redaktør LB), no talent, will be out!
dagen efter hans restaurant i Trump Tower havde fået en veloplagt destruktiv anmeldelse i Vanity Fair, anmelderen hedder Tina Nguyen, overskriften (i net-versionen) er "Trump Grill could be the worst restaurant in America" og sådan begynder destruktionen:
"Halfway through a recent late lunch at the Trump Grill—the clubby steakhouse in the lobby of Trump Tower that has recently become famous through the incessant media coverage of its namesake landlord, and the many dignitaries traipsing through its marbled hall to kiss his ring—I sensed the initial symptoms of a Trump overdose. Thanks to an unprecedented influx of diners, we were sitting at a wobbly overflow table outside the restaurant, in the middle of a crush of tourists, some of whom were proposing to their partners, or waiting to buy Trump-branded merchandise, or sprinting to the bathroom.
As
my companions and I contemplated the most painless way to eat our
flaccid, gray Szechuan dumplings with their flaccid, gray innards, as a
campy version of “Jingle Bells” jackhammered in the background, a giant
gold box tied with red ribbon toppled onto us. Trump, it seemed, was
already fighting against the War on Christmas.
Donald Trump is “a poor person’s idea of a rich person,” Fran Lebowitz recently observed at The Vanity Fair
New Establishment Summit. “They see him. They think, ‘If I were rich,
I’d have a fabulous tie like that.’” Nowhere, perhaps, does this
reflection appear more accurate than at Trump Grill (which is
occasionally spelled Grille on various pieces of signage). On one level,
the Grill (or Grille), suggests the heights of plutocratic splendor—a
steakhouse built into the basement of one’s own skyscraper.
Generic scenes of pastoral life and cuckoldry inside Trump Grill.
Photograph by Tina Nguyen.
On
another level, Trump Grill falls somewhat short of that lofty goal. The
restaurant features a stingy number of French-ish paintings that look
as though they were bought from Home Goods. Wall-sized mirrors serve to
make the place look much bigger than it actually is. The bathrooms
transport diners to the experience of desperately searching for toilet
paper at a Venezuelan grocery store. And like all exclusive bastions of haute cuisine, there is a sandwich board in front advertising two great prix fixe deals.
t
The
allure of Trump’s restaurant, like the candidate, is that it seems like
a cheap version of rich. The inconsistent menus—literally, my menu was
missing dishes that I found on my dining partners’—were chock-full of
steakhouse classics doused with unnecessarily high-end ingredients. The
dumplings, for instance, come with soy sauce topped with truffle oil,
and the crostini is served with both hummus and ricotta, two exotic
ingredients that should still never be combined. The menu itself would
like to impress diners with how important it is, randomly capitalizing
fancy words like “Prosciutto” and “Julienned” (and, strangely, ”House
Salad”)."
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