After my somewhat unremarkable affair with Centro, I headed back to Des Moines, Iowa with both of my parents in company, to Clyde’s Fine Diner in East Village. I was going on the advice of my good friend, Thomas Nsereko, former Grinnell student and lead cook at Saga, a two-Michelin Star restaurant in New York, N.Y.
On the evening of Sept. 20, I was expecting greatness, due to both the menu and the recommendation of my friend. I entered the restaurant with high hopes and an empty stomach. By the time I left, it was as if my optimism had satisfied my appetite, at the expense of the anticipated joy that my optimism sustained before the meal.
The interior of the restaurant gives customers the impression that the two words following Clyde’s are engaged in a visible and territorial war. A true American-style counter, which houses the expansive bar, occupies the middle of the space, with cushioned stools guaranteeing that this is, in fact, a diner. On the edges of the room, however, the diner vibe seems to fade, as traditional black dining chairs replace the swiveling stools. Elegant lamps and wall fixtures illuminate the space nicely. Or, at least, the lights should illuminate the space nicely. On this night, however, various dimmings and flickerings took that opportunity away. We sat at one of these side tables, over which a portrait of an unknown man, presumably Clyde, smoking a cigar loomed…