Oh ye of little taste; ye who have dined at Jamin. How can you speak of Spago and dining in the same breath ("The Spagoization of Manhattan," by Ruth Reichl, Dec. 8)?
Why, pray tell, does one go to a restaurant? Is it to wait with a room full of noisy boors for a reservation to be acknowledged, no less honored?
Is it to be, finally, cavalierly seated in the non "in" part of the restaurant by a very impressed with his-herself juvenile? Is it to get "OK" food served when it is ready, not all served together, by another unprofessional juvenile who announces his-her name as though I arrived at a social gathering to meet him-her.
If one goes out to be seen, I guess Spago and its ilk is the place, although all are so busy being seen they can't possibly see.