So Sifton trucks Imperial No.9 like Soho was his crease and the restaurant was a Sedin. And like Tim Thomas, Sifton drops a goose egg. An ouchy goose egg. On the strength of the Eater's Kittens tell you the bad news feature, Frodnesor pointed out the lack of a soundtrack.
There have been bad reviews in DI/DO before. Bruni on Ninja comes to mind. Freeman's got damned with faint praise well into its Yogi Berra Era. But! When you close a review of a hotel restaurant by offering the guests of that hotel the address and number of a Chodorow-operated establishment, you have crossed over from a bad review to ritualized acts of aggression, like dropping a hat in front of someone at Mardi Gras Indian practice.
We are in whole new territories of scorn. Again, like Tim Thomas creates the illusion of an opening, Soundtrack-wise:
And lobes of dismal-flavored sea urchin served over thick lardo and heavy toast were just dreadful: the eighth band after Nirvana to write loud-soft-loud music and call it new.
Alice in Chains? Stone Temple Pilots? It's a trap, because it would involve delving through the shittiest music of the 90s for an answer. Luckily, braver men than I have done this already. FOC Spencer et al, offer the definitive disquisition on queefcore, the degenerate offspring of grunge. The short version is here.