Frank Bruni needs to get drunk more often. That's our only conclusion after reading today's two star review of uptown Italian Sfoglia. Usually you can feel Frank at least trying to restrain himself from overwriting, but get a few glasses into him and all caution is cast to the wind. Yes, he will have that last metaphor, thank you very much!

Half in the bag, Frank muses about our lack of respect for lunch, which we apparently don't do right by. He comes out with all sorts of crazy shit ("The fusilli bore some responsibility as well. A dish of pasta this fantastic, its sauce of cream and vin santo applied with restraint and leavened cunningly by shredded carrot, convinces a person that whatever path led him to it should be embraced more often.") but our favorite bit is this, concerning the owners:

He's savory and she's sweet — I speak of their menu assignments, not their dispositions — with one very notable exception. She's responsible for the house bread, a union of crunchy, generously salted exterior and pillowy interior that's the very definition of a happy marriage.

Or maybe the best bit was his dining companion, when she slurred, "Why's it all the way up here?" Alessandra Stanley? Is that you?

What can one add? We're through the looking glass on this one. The next drink's on us, Frank.

Rustic With a Dash of Sophistication [NYT]