This joint falls somewhere between a Pret a Manger and a grab-and-go joint at LaGuardia. Its aesthetic is like one of those SoHo women’s clothing stores that’s 2,000 square feet with 20-foot ceilings, but only has seven dresses on display. Which, you know from movies and such, means the place is hella classy. Or, in this case, Proper. But looks can be deceiving, as this really is just a fluffed up version of like a Hudson News with some sandwiches and little plates sitting in fridges in plastic and cardboard waiting to be inhaled by some slob in a double-breasted, wide-shouldered suit. It’s absolute insanity what a waste of usable space we have here. Like bonkers weird.
The real question here at Proper Food is how can one tell the difference between the food and the container in which is comes? Like in a blindfolded taste test, could your average consumer of its food understand if he was eating, say, the Chicken Teriyaki plate or the literal plate? Because this joint was not made to please tastebuds. It’s built to provide expediency at lunchtime. And give the air of “healthy” by sapping the grub of any oil, fat or taste. And a bed of dry, brown rice, of course.
White-people food. It should be a category or genre or whatever we’re calling sustenance these days. It’s food without a soul. Without care. Without any aspiration to be anything but calories for drone workers to suck into their faces. To scoot around a container with a spork searching for something worthwhile. The opposite of hearty. The opposite of fun. Which I suppose is why it’s called “proper.” Because everyone knows anything deemed proper is not a good time. Which is incredibly true in both form and function at Proper Food.