I Suppose This Means I’ll Be Taking That Whiskey Neat

Peter Meehan provides a thumbnail sketch of everything that is wrong with Manhattan restaurants:

It was the whipped cream routine that tipped the scales.

Our perky waitress at Ditch Plains dropped off our desserts and enthusiastically told us that the chef would deliver whipped cream for our pie to the table. She made the pronouncement with the wide-eyed expression and excited tone you might use when springing an impromptu field trip on a group of schoolchildren. Fun was on the way, she was telling us.

Then a harried cook sneaked past her, plopped a canister of supermarket whipped cream on the table and scurried back to the kitchen. Ta-da!

. . .

It’s unfortunate that the restaurant pairs that burger with its cafeteria-quality French fries instead of the freshly made sweet potato chips that accompany its lobster roll. The mayonnaise-rich salad of chopped lobster meat tumbling out of a buttered and toasted hot dog roll (side-sliced, not top-sliced, for those keeping score in Maine) is not exactly a bargain at $23, but that is what the market will bear.

Whether the market will bear some of the other prices the restaurant charges remains to be seen. Want ice in your whiskey? That’ll be $2 extra. How about a slice of American cheese on your burger? That will take the simple sandwich from the realm of the expensive ($12) to the absurd ($15).