Apparently being old school allows you to jack up your prices. If Tony Bennett, that whore, has dined at your establishment more than twice, not only are you obligated to put his signed photograph on the wall, but you must also triple the cost of chicken parmesan. Patsy’s is a perfect example of New York run amok. Take a passable Italian joint, keep it open for more than twenty years, fill it with some gaudy Italian-y things, say some famous, dead Italians ate there (and supposedly liked it), and charge any and every yahoo who walks through the door as if they’re supping at some classy French joint run by one of those cooking show dudes. The key word in that last, very long, sentence was “passable,” because that’s about all the food was. “But, sir, this is Patsy’s! We’re a New York institution; our requirement to actually try ran out years ago.” I’ve certainly had better Italian food at many of those $11.99-an-entree places Manhattan is so chock full of. I don’t need your gold leaf and your cheeseball mirrors and your creep-filled, waxy crowd with their suits and their facelifts. Sure, you jar and sell your own sauce, but that’s somewhat akin to American Airlines selling their own line of frozen dinners. So we ask: old school, or just worn out? [MF]
236 W 56th St.
212/247-3491
patsys.com
