Reviewing Miami and then some. Gratuitous vulgarity included.

Gentleman’s Review: Il Gabbiano

19th Century Time-traveling Gentleman’s Review: Il Gabbiano

[post_intro] [/post_intro]

As a gentleman bred of the highest American pedigree, it was of surprise to me the way restauranteurs of the 21st century comported themselves. This establishment, however, redeemed its compatriots in certain attributes.

I found it odd that amidst the shelter of such an illustrious eatery there was nay a top hat or monocle to be found.

Colored folks and uncultured females, dressed like dubious ruffians and common whores respectively, seemed the staple of Il Gabbiano. I found it odd that amidst the shelter of such an illustrious eatery there was nay a top hat or monocle to be found. Surely a lapse in etiquette such as this shan’t be overlooked! I vociferated my intention to seek audience with the proprietor, and within mere minutes of consulting my pocket watch the gentleman had arrived beside my dining table.

I inquired, “good sir, a word regarding the manner in which your patrons carry themselves?” He politely asked how he could help. “Your frequenters seem at a loss of decorum. What is your plan to resolve this most egregious conundrum,” I asked. His response was understandable. “Sir, it seems you aren’t from around here.”

“Ah, quite the intrepid declaration to make against a gentleman of higher status. My name is Samuel Pepperdine III, Esq. and I am a time-traveler. I have traveled forward in time a century-and-a-half to sample cuisine,” I told the man boldly. After he explained the changes in wardrobe and form, I had a private chuckle about the relatively recent granting of rights to colored folk and women, and his joke about a negro president. A jolly good belly-laugh indeed!

Lips should never be painted in such a deep red, lest you are an Indian or French.

The food, while quite pricey even for a man of status such as myself, was enticing. It almost made me forget I was sitting 1/3rd an acre-breadth from a woman showing her legs as if she were a savage Indian. In retrospect perhaps an Indian she was, judging by her odd, butchered English and the war-paint slathered upon her face. Lips should never be painted in such a deep red, lest you are an Indian or French.

I inquired about the possibility of payment in property rather than currency in the form of banknotes, however the foreperson deemed that impossible. While bothersome, those were acceptable terms. Luckily I detoured in my time travels to invest wisely in Standard Oil, thus making me the absurd title “billionaire.” Hahaha, as if billions in gold reserve even existed! Next they’ll be telling me man walked on the moon.

I deem Il Gabbiano worthy of a gentleman’s patronage.

So where the hell is it?
Share
Dude, I'm serious, I'll kill a bunny if you don't click this button »


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *