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After yesterday's look at how it felt to have Frank Bruni in your restaurant we eagerly anticipated the actual review. So, did Frank like the place? Well, not so much.

If cooking were a sport involving a pool, a springboard and numerical degrees of difficulty, nearly everything Freemans does would be a swan dive. There's not a triple flip in the bunch.


Wait, what the fuck does that mean? This might be a little more clear:

[T] he kitchen's imagination and ambition mandate a more skilled performance, matched by less dismissive service. And the people jamming the entrance, eager to see what the fuss is about, need to know that what awaits them isn't a memorable feast. It's iceberg with ranch dressing under a stuffed boar's head.

Got it. What it means is no stars for you. How did Freemans' William Tigerrt react? With a lot of drinking. And some philosophy: "I can't say it's fun to be on the sharp end of one of the harshest reviews he's done since Ninja." But the final word goes to his partner, Taavo Somer:

Critics have been slamming the Stones for decades, but they like making music and people like listening to it. Our food is simple, but people like it. We're not trying to be Phillip Glass.

Don't try and out-metaphor Bruni, fellas. He's got a quiver full of incomprehensible analogies and he's not afraid to use them.

Hiding in Not-So-Plain Sight [NYT]
On the House: The Bruni Journal, Coda [Eater]