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Frank Bruni ruminates on the New York dining experience, in which menus have lately taken a turn towards the absurd (yeah, Megu, we're talking to you):

The five scariest words [a New York diner can hear] are: "Let me explain the menu."

They would be merely unnecessary - and ultimately innocuous - if they presaged the sentence, "It's a list of dishes and prices in an aesthetically appealing font." They don't. They signal the august commencement of an interminable exegesis on the difference between the tapas-style temptations in the top corner of one page and the appetizer-esque offerings in the bottom corner of another. They herald a document with more subdivisions than a Phoenix suburb. They augur an unmanageable feast.

Holy shit. For once, we actually agree with Frank Bruni.
New York Menus: Read 'Em And Weep [NYT]