A Pre-Emptive Restaurant Review

JIMMY'S DINER
577 Union Avenue, Brooklyn NY
What I'm Sure Would Be 0 Xmas Trees

Strolling down Union Ave yesterday, I could see from a short distance that my “beloved” Union Picnic joint was finally out of business and has been replaced. A fried chicken place (and by “fried chicken place” I mean one of those places that purports to be Southern but is run by someone who thinks The Colonel fought in the Cola Wars of the mid-80s) that was a series of comedic errors (no chicken. no ice. no change. no shit.) and deserves it’s own post one day.

But as I walked up to the new joint, I saw that it was now “Jimmy’s Diner.” Like UP it seats about 10; none comfortably. And then I looked up and there in the door was a fat, older Italian neighborhood guy who, I’m guessing, was Jimmy. Or Delta Burke. Hanging out in the doorway, beaming out into the street. And in a flash my mind instantly distilled everything Anthony Bourdain had decried in his classic “Kitchen Confidential” to be certain failure for any restaurant. Restaurant Failure 101: (all pure conjecture of course) Jimmy, being raised in the old Italian section of Williamsburg, grew up loving food, stuffing his face with it at every huge family dinner. At some point Jimmy started making meatballs and gravy, having big dinners for his friends, all of whom always brayed loudly “Jimmy you gotta start your own place!! This is great!! Is man a dream, stretched over an abyss? This gravy is awesome!!!” After years of hearing this, Jimmy sees the incoming flux of young, rich suckers moving into his neighborhood and decides to cash in on his “real-neighborhood” authenticity by opening a small diner, part of whose charm is Jimmy himself – a loud, hugging Italian cartoon of a man who loves his mama and makes sly innuendos that he knows mobsters. He’ll give these people a slice of REAL Williamsburg, and make them pay for it. Poor, poor Jimmy.

So I grab a menu to take with me. Handwritten of course, with a picture of Jimmy as a toddler. I guess if the menu looks like it was done by a coked-up Tickle Me Elmo doll, I’m supposed to be charmed into popping my food wad for the month here. Wtf. When I open my restaurant, the menu will be Crayola etchings with glitter made from my own placenta. $$$Ka-ching!!!!!!!! My default glance to see how bullshit a restaurant is of course cheeseburger with fries. Jimmy’s asking $11 for this. Hmm. $11 to sit just off the BQE in a dining room the size of my nutbag for a burger and fries. No thanks. I can get this UNDER the BQE, and have a boyfriend who has his own shopping cart of aluminum cans to boot. And lemme guess – Jimmy will make it worth your while by basically making it a huge, dried-out meatball. The bigger the better, I guess. Thanks, Jimmy!!

Jimmy is also guilty of another one of Bourdain’s sins – too much variety. This menu’s got more choices than Michael Jackson at a Romper Room remake of Ben Hur. Jimmy’s got Italian, of course. Don’t like Italian? That’s cool, Jimmy’s got Mexican. And seafood. And a huge breakfast menu. Huevos rancheros, “The Homeboy”, “real Southern” cornbread bowls. Deep-fried moon rocks with almond drizzle for you brothers from another planet. Jimmy’s not just looking to cash in on the vibe of his own neighborhood, but any neighborhood that it will take to make you sit down and look at his Sinatra pictures on the wall while dropping some serious bread.

And it is serious. A $12 salad? Really? There’s only one salad that’s worth $12 - and, if I’ve studied my Chris Rock correctly, and I think I have, you have to get caught stealing a car to get one. And a side of baked beans costs $4. Please. Jimmy. Williamsburg hipsters will gladly pay $900 for a used Hold Steady lunch box, but they won’t pay $4 for baked beans for fuck’s sake. Hipsters don’t like anything that makes them gassy unless it’s the thought of someone finding their high school yearbook and finding out that they DIDN’T actually love Wire or Gang of Four in high school - at least then they feel a bit of danger to give themselves a thrill.

$4 for a side of corn bread. $5 for, get this, ENGLISH MUFFIN PIZZA!!!!! Jesus Christ. You can’t call something a “pizza” if it’s not bigger than the black eye you get when you try to steal my copy of "Anal Encounters IV: They Always Come Back." Camon, Jimmy.

You get the picture. I’ve walked by twice now, and it’s still just Jimmy in the doorway, no one at the tables. I guess all of his buddies who were clamoring for him to open a restaurant have used up all their free meals and are deserting our hero. This place will not be open in six months. Ah well. Sorry, Jimmy.