by Tom Lee
Perhaps it’s just because I’m a little cranky, having been up until 3AM brewing a batch of wheat beer with Kriston (“JESUS CHRIST WHY WON’T THIS COOL FASTER”), but this has got to be one of the stupidest sentences I’ve ever read:
Underground dinner parties, see. In Brooklyn. And they’re invite-only, which I guess distinguishes them from ordinary, less-cool dinner parties that are open to the public. (Do we think the series creators are clear on the restaurant/dinner party distinction? It’s not often discussed, but is crucially important to this sort of endeavor.)
Perhaps the show’s premise is all tongue-in-cheek — at this point it’s impossible to say. But I hope it’s meant in earnest. In my mind’s eye there is a crowd of hooting young people in an empty warehouse; in their midst Paul Walker unveils a souped-up, neon-lit Kitchenaid, then deploys his trademark pretty-boy smirk across the room to Vin Diesel, who signals his grudging (but entirely heterosexual!) admiration for Walker with his own slightly more musclebound smirk. The camera slowly slides and zooms. You can tell there is a sort of unspoken communication happening, and it is a special thing even if most of those unspoken words are dude and bro. Then the cops bust in, sending demiglace and black market sous vide machines flying everywhere.
That’s just the opening scene, but I think you get the idea. This is the unrealistic standard to which I’m going to be holding this show. If, on the other hand, the series turns out to merely be a recapitulation of the pretty-boring Dinner: Impossible, except with a lame Fight Club premise instead of a lame Mission: Impossible premise, I’m going to be terribly disappointed.