The Oceanaire
I saw an article today about The Oceanaire that bore the subheader: “where big fish meets small town.” Um, excuse me? The Oceanaire is a CHAIN. I guarantee that joint has at least 60 tables, not including the bar. It’s where bourgeoius surbanites bring the out-of-towners to show them some class and where girls who couldn’t get jobs as receptionists at Gene Juarez hold court at the hostess stand. The Waterfront Jr., if you will. The multitude of choices on the menu is daunting (sole or crab? tower of seafood or oysters on the half-shell?), but if you’re daring enough to ask for a lobster done up in a pretty pink dress the entire staff will be more than happy to oblige. Granted, this may only be because our table had to have been the most “quirky” and “indie” of the night- nay, the weekend. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact the server lit the tablecloth on fire in lieu of a Baked Alaska. It had to have been that, and not that our tablemate was fucking him with her eyes. I’m sure the women’s *powder room*, with that enormous stall enveloping its own washbasin and mirror, has seen more than its share of key bumps.