No restaurant critic can outrun the inevitable crankiness of old age. I am just about enough of a millennial to generally find loud restaurant music to be a thrill rather than a reportable act of violence; the mere sight of the words “small”, “plates” and “concept” do not yet cause me to reflexively grind my teeth.
And yet, we begin, this week, with one of the first sure signs that I am shuffling happily towards what we might call my Curmudgeonly Uncle Era. Which is to say, I visited a brand new, sizzling hot wine bar called Ken’s and I left feeling more than a little perplexed by both the outlay and the thinness of the experience.
