So last night I caught the second episode of the new reality series The Restaurant. Originally, I had decided to swear off all reality shows, seeing as I usually felt dumber as a result of watching them. However, it wasn’t until after the final episode of a show aired that I’d realize my skull felt a little emptier.
It’s like when you go on some huge drinking binge out in the city with your buddies, slamming around on some obscure dance floor with some even more obscure women, having what seems like the time of your life. You eventually wake up the next afternoon with butter knives twisting in your eyesockets, saying with a hoarse voice and through .09 breath, “I will never drink again for as long as I live.” Apparently, most people consider themselves as cats with nine lives, seeing as that’s surely never the last time they utter that sentence.
Now I found myself watching this new reality show, about a month or so after my last binge with the excruciating “For Love or Money” — a new record. For what it’s worth, I plead the “My Wife Made Me” defense in this case. I reserve the right to refer to this method of defense in the future, although most assuredly Deb will counter with the “That’s Bullshit” manuever, to which I will respond with my “She’s Nuts” tactic.
I won’t bore you with the details of The Restaurant, but in essence the viewers are treated to an hour of watching a large handful of whiney waiters/waitresses trying to deal with the whiney customers who were seated by the whiney host and then served food by the whiney bussers, cooked by the whiney cooks. In this particular episode, one customer complained about the lack of red wine in the restaurant. I agreed — from what I could see, not one employee was a redhead.
Unlike the past reality shows, I actually left this one feeling a little more intelligent. There are a few important lessons I learned from watching just one episode:
- The customers at Rocco’s on 22nd are bitches. They had the queen of whine, Fran Drescher, as a customer that night, and she came off as a proper English aristocrat compared to everyone else. Fran Drescher, people!
- I will never run a restaurant — at least never in New York city, that’s for shit-sure. NBC has ER, The West Wing and now The Restaurant. I think they need to change their motto from “Must See TV” to “Must Have A Cardiac Arrest from Watching People Under Extreme Mental Duress TV”. So now I add “New York Restaurant Owner” to my list of “professions I will never follow” (which already included Rotten Sardine Taste Detector, Russian Cartographer, and Peep-Show Janitor).
- I do not need to watch another episode of The Restaurant. I think the details already expressed are enough explanation. If not, try this:
- Drink nine bottles of a highly caffeinated soda-pop.
- Go to the baboon cage at the nearest zoo (the monkey cage will do).
- When nobody’s looking, throw a spatula, various raw vegetables, thirty pounds of uncooked meatballs, a blowtorch, a bottle of red wine, a fire extinguisher and a set of ceramic plates in the cage.
- Replace the “Monkey Cage” sign with the restaurant name of your choice.
- Before the first person shows up to watch the baboons with their new toys, make the baboons put together a three-course gourmet meal.
- For bonus points, throw Fran Drescher in the cage.
In the final scenes of the show, I could see Rocco DiSpirito (the owner/head chef) thirstily drinking a beer towards the end of the night. Unfortunately, unlike a night out drinking with his buddies on that obscure dance floor with those even more obscure women, he will not wake up the next afternoon thinking he will never do it again for as long as he lives. This was only episode number two of a season-long schedule. Have another beer, Rocco.
