The Tortured Drama Continues
“Todd,” “Todd,” “Todd.”
Sigh. You couldn’t just leave it there, could you? You had to go all Deep Throat and get some local impersonator to respond to our breakup letter with a reply about, oh, 25 times more self aware than we remember you ever being during our time together. Was it an underling chef at Figs — a last holdout at the dying fortress — who you put up to writing it? A cog in your public relations wheel? A city newspaper journalist with a talent for satire, perhaps?
Agh, who cares, really. Plenty of that letter made us snarf up our coffee with genuine, loving laughter at your newly embraced awesomeness. (Who knew you’d ever admit to a Sheen affiliation, or that you knew schadenfreude wasn’t German sausage?) And if somehow we’re wrong, and it was your writing? Well, then it seems we’ve stumbled on the one thing more unfocused than your food lately.
Not to worry. We realize you were seriously distracted — not just from your home city, but apparently also from your newer exploits, too. And your Manhattanite pals are taking more and more notice by the moment. Just yesterday there was this, and then this and then this.
But hey, you know Boston. We’ve always got a silver lining to hang our ego on, and here’s a biggie: We’ve got pah-lenty of prospects around town to fill your shoes — and actually, you’re to thank for that. If you’d been in town lately, you’d have noticed the clusters of bloated-ego chefs who now behave like “Todd” wannabes. Why, it’s your legacy that’s convinced them that their time’s better spent preening and posturing than working at the stove and nurturing new kitchen talent. So every time we look at them all googly-eyed, we’ll be thinking of you.
Happily moving on,
P.S. We’re returning the metal wristwatch you gave us. Please feel free to pass it onto our replacement girlfriend.