I often work in gourmet eateries frequented by the likes of the Firecrotch, KimYe and every Tom, Dick and Harry in between. Oh, they’re no Alain Ducasse type of places but shit – they sure do put on a great front (and mostly fail). Yet, the bar/restaurant/lounge going public couldn’t care less how many Michelin Stars these spots aren’t bestowed. From their perspective, the eats are damned good and the eye-candy, even better. So when you roll into my restaurant bar, peruse the menu, and ask me “what’s good?,” be prepared for a big, fat, fake-ass smile. Brace yourself for a litany of grad-school approved, Madison Ave fluffed superlatives suggesting the priciest (read: bigger tip percentage) McNuggets on the menu and how scrumptious I say they are. There’s just one problem: it’s all a big fat fucking lie.