You know the type, the ultra-picky customer whose complaints ruin dinner for everyone in the restaurant. The self-appointed lightning rods for tough steak, spilled wine, fallen soufflés, incorrect checks. Waiter, there's a fly in my drink! Miss, there's no gremolata on the osso buco! You want to find her car in the parking lot and let the air out of her tires, or send a mash note to her table: "STFUA!"
Leslie Kelly, Seattle's sorriest excuse for a restaurant writer, finally jumps the shark with the most self-absorbed, petulant, infantile item in this morning's Pee-Eye: finding a fly--nay, not even a house fly but a moustique, a fruit-fly, a gnat--next to her drink at Qube. From this single transgression, this one perceived slight to her fragile ego, she extrapolates the need for a Diners Bill of Rights and the complete downfall of Western Civilization.
Just look at the threat presented by this monster. (Link is to a post on Kelly's blog, aptly named Whining & Dining.) From her account the fly wasn't even in her drink, but had expired harmlessly. Would that barfly Kelly would do the same. Quietly. And soon.
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