restaurants.philly2nite.com



		L2
	by jen estaris
	Quick to the cut money shot, red velvet juices oozing with faux Renaissance paintings...my god...like the setting for a bacchanalian sex frenzy, without the nonsensical action. For a place as ridiculously lavish as this, one would think the dress would attempt an upscale manner. Not so. The idea is not so bad; a romantic schema for the laidback of sorts. Just not up to my standards. L2, the slightly new restaurant at 22nd and south, is a bit misleading. Intimate. Intima-dating. Intimidating. Red. Blood red. Plush and voluptuous, they say. Pardon me while I retch. And as for the hanging haunting portraits of 17th century artists, am I eating in a museum (which actually creates a fine effect, perfect for those goths who want to really make a statement on their blind date--note: this is not sarcasm. I feel like, if you want to impress, take your fellow stylin' beau to a place that so clashes with both person's demeanor so as to amplify just how unique the both of you are and how much you two are M.F.E.O. [made for each other] )? Music in the atmosphere, horrendous: is the porn scene going to be filmed soon? Lagging '80s harsh easy-listening flying about, ready to slap you in the face if you're not careful. Gets subliminal after awhile, but do you really want that stuff secretly penetrating your food before you take a bite? I would much rather hear those fake orgasmic moans, which make me lose my appetite (though, I suppose, increase my arousal), as opposed to the current shite, which makes my stomach curdle. And lanky waiters with their fine-pressed jeans--one young lad a few years off-key, wearing a chain. They ended up looking like the set's crew, sans cameras, makeup kits, gopher yells. Were we there off-season? At least (at least) they were polite. Unlike the food, which is your typical continental fare, sans clever names. With its pretty appealing price range (the most expensive dish, not counting specials or those listed under the ever-so secretive "market price," is $18, with most everything else lying in the $10-13 range), L2 sticks to the regular unaphrodisiatic romance fare--Caesar salad, black bean soup, filet mignon, homemade meatloaf, chicken parmesan, fried calamari, carrot cake, key lime pie. Boring. But there are a few clever keepers, like the Pasta Mikie (rose sauce with procuitto over penne) or the self-referential L2 (red leaf, tasted walnuts, gorgonzola, pears, sweet vinaigrette). But! So deceiving, the bitches, seducing us with the stone crab claws' coy glances and the exposed cleavage of the crispy duck drizzled with raspberry sauce (or whatever the sauce of the moment is). And what about the Pocono Trout, flirting brazenly from the plate, accessorized with the honestly innocent vegetables and delightful garlic mashed potatoes. My god, how blatantly bland does the food need to be to have its patrons cry in agony mostly unrelated phrases? HAVE THEY NO SHAME? Variety is the spice of life. Man is the salt of the earth. And Lot's wife looked back and was turned into a pillar of salt. Didn't they learn this back in Sunday school, or was that the period of their lives when they found the stash of nude Victorian photographs and overflowing bosoms of Ingres' young, corsetted ladies, which was thus reflected in the restaurant's gaudy costume? The presentation and the side dishes were beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. But I'm one for the main entree having taste, you know. It's enough to corrupt the rest of my dining experience into vile debauchery, transforming even the most amorous of scenes into the rape of Lucretia. I was quite disappointed in the fact that they referred to the crispy duck as their signature dish, when, upon first bite of this dry poultry, I felt like running off to Chinatown for some real, juicy, greasy, tasty, cheap duck. So, if you have no taste--this is not to say bad taste, but no taste, as in lack thereof, as in absence--then this may be the restaurant to take your significant other. The food presentation is wonderful. The price is excellent for the cheesy dress (though don't be looking for quality petticoats). The consumption, as mentioned before, has no taste. Again, that's no taste, absence, not bad taste. So, to recap: Attempts a romantic schema. Not up to my standards. Bad taste. Cheap. Very misleading. Indulging a sense of porn-inflicted madness. Much like men.