Today's DI/DO shows the two diametrically-opposed facets of food critic Frank Bruni's personality: He's both the avenging angel of the high-end nibbles set, and the whimsical stylist with tongue in a cheek full of truffles. In Batman mode, Bruni decries the trend toward dictatorial dining experiences, where the cruel culinary overlords charge you a ridiculous (and often unspecified) amount of money to choke down tiny portions of whatever's on offer, whether you like it or not. Batman blames the huge publishing deals, the TV programs, the diners themselves ("It's largely our doing. Chefs and restaurants wouldn't behave the way they do if we penalized them for it, instead of readily demonstrating our fealty."), and finally dons the hairshirt and takes his own share of responsibility:

"I gave moderately or hugely positive reviews to Ure a, BLT Fish, L'Atelier, Eleven Madison Park and Per Se, all of which had virtues that, to varying degrees, outweigh their vanities. I raved about Babbo, where the seductiveness of the food transcends a bullying rock soundtrack that puts the cult of its chef before the comfort of diners. When you're at Babbo, you listen to what Mario Batali wants you to, at the volume he elects, no matter how unlikely you are to enjoy it. It's his house, not yours."

(Again with the damn iPods.) But it's not long before Frank leads us to the barricades, with a stirring "Something's got to give." Suggested starting points: simple acts of civil disobedience such as, uh, refusing to call back a second time to confirm.

On the other side of the coin, Frank takes a page from Times book critic Michiko Kakutani's script and writes his review of Graydon Carter's Waverly Inn in the persona of Frannie Von Furstinshow, a socialite dilettante (her e-mail domain is guccipucci.com; it's those little touches that really set the tone of the piece) who has enjoyed the friendly confines of Bank and Waverly eleven times so far. You can read the review yourself (it's got to be the most affection one-star review we've ever seen; "I've dawdled in getting to the food, because I hate to complain. But does it have to be this good, Graydon?") and assess the advisability of Frank's donning a different identity from which to evaluate our city's cafeterias.

We prefer to think that Frannie von Furstinshow is actually the alternate self Frank becomes when he grows weary of being recognized, of bearing the heavy burden of being the Times lead food critic, of bearing the burden of simply being. We imagine him sitting at Waverly Inn in a DVF wrap dress, with a long brown wig and clip-on earrings, instructing all his friends to "call me Frannie." During idle moments, the waitstaff stare over at the table. "Who is this miraculous creature," they wonder. "I'm drawn to her energy, her otherness." Later that evening a young busboy who has always been slightly confused about which side of the gender line he falls on comes to the realization that it makes no difference: we must live to celebrate our lives in the most fulfilling way possible, no matter what social conventions say. He is free, liberated, changed. Thank you, Frannie. And thank you, Batman.

You May Kiss the Chef's Napkin Ring
Dear Graydon [NYT]

Also, is it just us, or is that dude in the Times sketch above seated with the two girls supposed to be Dave Zinczenko?