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Today after realizing that I am unqualified for all of the jobs that I bookmarked last night, I started paging though my roommate’s magazine subscriptions. She gets your basic pretentious young Manhattanite publications of biblical self-importance, standards like The New Yorker, Timeout, and New York Magazine. The Weekender even shows up when people don’t steal it from our “vestibule.” I often think to myself that since she goes through the trouble to get these magazines and manages to read them that I should partake when they’re just sitting there on the coffee table and I’m just sitting at my desk doing nothing except crafting long awkward sentences.
Anyways, page 50 of this week’s New York Magazine features yet another list of “Trends We’re Tired Of.” You know what I’m tired of? Lists.
Among the phenomena listed were duck fat, pork and yes, small plates: “What began as a felicitous trend of the aughts has turned into a method for running up the check.”
This is a newsflash of some sort? Obviously small plates are generally a scam for foodies. Obviously it ends up costing more. I mean, if you want to have tapas, knock yourself out, but really every pretentious restaurant having a small plates option (secretly their appetizer selections) is just a way to make an ordinary meal sound and cost something festive. But really, thank you New York Magazine for alerting the trend obsessed masses to the obvious.
I also enjoy that this list alone exemplifies precisely how New York is a cosmos unto itself.