I wrote a review of the new Bier Markt for CULT MTL, who insist on giving my articles irritating titles but are otherwise apparently willing to let me do whatever I want, because no one attempted to impose a single sentence break on this piece of self-indulgent claptrap:
The space is cavernous, two-tiered (apparently three. I looked it up. The third one is perhaps hidden), and conspicuously gaudy — slick with the rapidly congealing afterbirth of a newly installed chain restaurant attempting to conjure the mythic grace of the (or perhaps any) old country, its brass and pounded tin crying out for the patina that they shall never accrete, or at any rate, likely shall never be allowed to accrete, and so is destined to reside in perpetuity as a Belgian beer hall chez Disney, its looming Mannekin Pis (the famous naked pissing toddler of Belgium, aka le Petit Julien) mutely proclaiming their aridity by dint of the absence of anything to piss or anywhere in which to piss save the arriving clientele, those mounting the stairs, or anyone else who happens to turn around and find themselves faced with the yawning urethrae of the many eight-foot stone children that populate the building.
At which I guffawed uproariously while drunkenly writing, naturally. It does now occur to me that almost every time I sit down to write a restaurant review I devote the first 3/4 of the piece to talking about how terrible the place is, then inevitably conclude with “Ah, just go anyway, what do I care?” I choose to view this as the triumph of the populist in me.
But seriously, it’s worth going (to Bier Markt) if only for the Rodenbach Grand Cru and dollar oyster 5à7.