Todd Terwilliger

Brooklyn’s edition of restaurant week begins in a mere eleven days. I am fairly certain that preparations at the participating restaurants are well underway all across the Burrough: colored chalk stockpiled, chalkboards prepped, special menus printed on special menu cards with special menu typefaces. The excitement, if not quite palpable, adds a certain unidentifiable odor to the air. Yet, beneath the surface, there is a black tide sloughing across the gastronomic landscape. There is a war coming. Make no mistake: it will be a war.

Yesterday was the kind of day that people talk about when they say this was that kind of day. New Jersey disappeared early behind a bank of gray soup. I could only barely make out a few strong lights from the far side of the Hudson, beady Mothman eyes burning through the haze. This is the kind of day that makes a feasible option out of the normally infeasible cafeteria. It was also taco day. The cafeteria management has the taco bar set up all askew, though maybe I shouldn’t complain- I’m in New York not Texas. However, it doesn’t take a culinary logician to see where the whole setup had gone horribly wrong.