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I walked out of a chic downtown Manhattan restaurant not long ago, with friends, before weβd ordered, because the music was so loud we were reduced to making hand signals. Four gestures I remember making (the extent of my sign language) were: βthumbs down,β βknife across throat,β βthis is bullshit,β and βletβs get out of here.β The cacophony, increasingly, is the point. Itβs a way to keep out the oldies, of which now, I suppose, we were. When Iβm trapped in a restaurant thatβs playing shitty songs at defenestrating volume, I think longingly of the house rules at St. John, Fergus Hendersonβs restaurant in London: βNo art. No music.β To crib a line from the poet William Matthews, the jukebox plays Marcel Marceau.
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Dwight Garner (The Upstairs Delicatessen: On Eating, Reading, Reading About Eating, and Eating While Reading)