In a New Yorker review of Bar Martignetti (which we'd previously nominated as our inaugural Douchebag Restaurants Hall of Fame entrant), we couldn't help but notice how they'd perfectly encapsulated not just the restaurant, but all Manhattan twentysomething douchebags.
The venue is perfectly pitched to a late-twenties crowd that seems as standardized as the setting. He: financial services, gym, bed head, shirt undone to second button, a beer, steak frites. She: publicity, tanning bed, "blond," chunky belt slung to one side, specialty cocktail, chicken salad.
Yeah, that sounds about right. The rest—she lives in the West Village, he lives "near Union Square," they both grew up in the suburbs and wear $200 jeans, etc. etc.—is implied.