, May 25, 2000
GIVE THE NATIONAL RIFLE ASSOCIATION credit for audacity. At its annual convention last weekend it announced plans to build a theme restaurant in Times Square,” reported The New York Times yesterday. The NRA Sports Grille will feature “a wild game menu and fresh mineral waters from around the world.”
The news that the NRA’s getting into the theme-restaurant business came as no surprise to my old friend Armand Croissant, New York’s top theme-restaurant consultant. “I’ve been working on it for months, darling!” he told me excitedly. “It was my idea to put the ‘e’ on the end of the ‘Grill.’ Like spelling caliber ‘calibre.’ Makes it more sophisticated. More European. Gourmet dining. Cordon bleu.”
“Gordon blew what?” said his NRA liaison man Bud, skimming Guns & Ammo as he waited for Armand to finish ordering the flower arrangements. “Gordon blew away a couple of punks who wanted to shake him down for drug money?”
“Cordon bleu,” sighed Armand. “Or, as I like to think of it, Carbine Bleu. It’s a whole new concept: Fine dining for gun nuts.”
“A gun restaurant, Armand?” I said, frankly unpersuaded. “Planet Hollywood, the Hard Rock Cafe, that’s one thing. But surely this is a bit controversial at a time when politicians are calling for mandatory trigger locks.”
“We have trigger lox,” he beamed. “Served on a poppyseed bagel with an avocado dip. But it’s not mandatory. It’s just one of many exciting menu options.” He suggested we wander over and take a look at the restaurant itself.
But Bud raised his hand. “Hold it right there, boys. You know they won’t let you in if you’re not wearing an ammo belt.”
“This is my favorite bit,” giggled Armand, as Bud fitted us out with a couple of stylish bandoliers from his couturier. As we strolled over, my old pal, one of New York’s shrewdest trend-spotters, explained his thinking. “The celebrity restaurants are all played out. The big growth area in theme eateries now is political lobby groups. I’ve just been pitching the idea of a restaurant to the National Organization of Women.”
“And what did they say?”
“Well, to be honest, they said, ‘Spend all day and night slaving over a hot stove? Typical bloody men. Try cooking it yourself, you sexist bastard.’ Then they hung up.”
We were in Times Square now, and, as we entered the NRA Grille, a grisly sight confronted us. At the very first table, two couples lay sprawled in their chairs, their faces spattered with red, their shirts turning a dark, remorseless crimson. The men were screaming, the women wailing in agony.
“Oh, my God!” I cried. “This is exactly what the gun-control groups are talking about!”
“It’s their own fault,” said the waiter. “I warned them: Never shake a full ketchup bottle.” As the stricken diners were helped to the bathroom—or, as the NRA calls it, the powder room—Armand and I were shown to our banquette.
“Hi, I’m Earl and I’ll be your shooter today. I mean, your server. Can I interest you in a beverage option?”
Armand was in a generous mood, so he ordered a .22 magnum of champagne.
“What’s your special today?” I asked.
“It’s the Saturday Night Special.”
“But it’s Wednesday lunchtime.”
“Sorry, but that’s the special every day,” said Earl. “Oh, and just so you won’t be embarrassed, it’s our policy to have one standard tip.”
“And what’s that?”
“‘Always sleep with a firearm under your bed.’”
“But we’re in a restaurant,” I pointed out.
“In that case, always sleep with a firearm under your bed of lettuce.”
As we waited for our beverages, Armand kept a close eye on his latest venture, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms’ new federal theme restaurant across the street. “It’s a sidewalk café called the Steakout!” he said. I looked out the window and, sure enough, behind a screen of protective
GIVE THE NATIONAL RIFLE ASSOCIATION credit for audacity. At its annual convention last weekend it announced plans to build a theme restaurant in Times Square,” reported The New York Times yesterday. The NRA Sports Grille will feature “a wild game menu and fresh mineral waters from around the world.”
The news that the NRA’s getting into the theme-restaurant business came as no surprise to my old friend Armand Croissant, New York’s top theme-restaurant consultant. “I’ve been working on it for months, darling!” he told me excitedly. “It was my idea to put the ‘e’ on the end of the ‘Grill.’ Like spelling caliber ‘calibre.’ Makes it more sophisticated. More European. Gourmet dining. Cordon bleu.”
“Gordon blew what?” said his NRA liaison man Bud, skimming Guns & Ammo as he waited for Armand to finish ordering the flower arrangements. “Gordon blew away a couple of punks who wanted to shake him down for drug money?”
“Cordon bleu,” sighed Armand. “Or, as I like to think of it, Carbine Bleu. It’s a whole new concept: Fine dining for gun nuts.”
“A gun restaurant, Armand?” I said, frankly unpersuaded. “Planet Hollywood, the Hard Rock Cafe, that’s one thing. But surely this is a bit controversial at a time when politicians are calling for mandatory trigger locks.”
“We have trigger lox,” he beamed. “Served on a poppyseed bagel with an avocado dip. But it’s not mandatory. It’s just one of many exciting menu options.” He suggested we wander over and take a look at the restaurant itself.
But Bud raised his hand. “Hold it right there, boys. You know they won’t let you in if you’re not wearing an ammo belt.”
“This is my favorite bit,” giggled Armand, as Bud fitted us out with a couple of stylish bandoliers from his couturier. As we strolled over, my old pal, one of New York’s shrewdest trend-spotters, explained his thinking. “The celebrity restaurants are all played out. The big growth area in theme eateries now is political lobby groups. I’ve just been pitching the idea of a restaurant to the National Organization of Women.”
“And what did they say?”
“Well, to be honest, they said, ‘Spend all day and night slaving over a hot stove? Typical bloody men. Try cooking it yourself, you sexist bastard.’ Then they hung up.”
We were in Times Square now, and, as we entered the NRA Grille, a grisly sight confronted us. At the very first table, two couples lay sprawled in their chairs, their faces spattered with red, their shirts turning a dark, remorseless crimson. The men were screaming, the women wailing in agony.
“Oh, my God!” I cried. “This is exactly what the gun-control groups are talking about!”
“It’s their own fault,” said the waiter. “I warned them: Never shake a full ketchup bottle.” As the stricken diners were helped to the bathroom—or, as the NRA calls it, the powder room—Armand and I were shown to our banquette.
“Hi, I’m Earl and I’ll be your shooter today. I mean, your server. Can I interest you in a beverage option?”
Armand was in a generous mood, so he ordered a .22 magnum of champagne.
“What’s your special today?” I asked.
“It’s the Saturday Night Special.”
“But it’s Wednesday lunchtime.”
“Sorry, but that’s the special every day,” said Earl. “Oh, and just so you won’t be embarrassed, it’s our policy to have one standard tip.”
“And what’s that?”
“‘Always sleep with a firearm under your bed.’”
“But we’re in a restaurant,” I pointed out.
“In that case, always sleep with a firearm under your bed of lettuce.”
As we waited for our beverages, Armand kept a close eye on his latest venture, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms’ new federal theme restaurant across the street. “It’s a sidewalk café called the Steakout!” he said. I looked out the window and, sure enough, behind a screen of protective
Similar Books
