paracity

The Louse reports this morning that NYC restaurants are installing DJs in order to attract the better class of chunderer. Quote: “I wouldn’t normally choose a restaurant with a D.J.,” said Kimberly Gray, 31, a financial consultant from Brooklyn who was studying the menu. “But the music isn’t too loud to be obnoxious. And the food is really good. It’s all very New Yorkish.”

Barcelona bars, too, are cursed by individuals embedded in the twisted debris of the post-industrial accident that turned them into non-sentient beans. If they are, indeed, cookin’ up a storm, then they belong in the kitchen along with the shaven failed male models turned therapists to the anorexic (cooks to you, darling). By all means hang an old CCTV in the corner for anyone who actually cares to see how they do it, and, if you want to save even more valuable space, let the DJ stay at home and service his (not many hers, fraid) empire from under the duvet. And then trolley decent-sized meals over from the place where they’re into golden arches rather than their meteorological cognate.

The NYT observes also that entrepreneurs are opening restaurants with DJs in order to segue to bar-dom without getting all the regulatory hassle. A similar scam exists here with official encouragement. Want to open a bar when the neighbourhood is against it? The folk at the council’s help-the-entrepreneur unit will tell you that the best way is to call it a clothes or furniture shop annex bar. The clothes or furniture are your window dressing and you put such ridiculous prices on them that the admin will be minimal. It’s all so corrupt, so evil, so unspeakably … Barcelona-ish.

I believe my mid-morning coffee is ready.

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