If you want to feel good about living in New York, read this approximately 19,000-word essay about a pilgrimage made to Le Bernardin by a Denver food writer. There are so many levels to enjoy in this one. There’s the fact that the writer, Jason Sheehan, has written the most sustained and rapturous ode to a restaurant we can remember. Then there’s the part about the citizens of Denver outraged at not being able to enjoy a vicarious thrill when Sheehan lets it be known that he won’t be dining at the place. (“I could hear the screams of pain and sobbing disappointment from Denver’s top-fuel foodies. I got letters from friends. I got phone calls from horrified fans. I got e-mails from other critics and chefs and civilians who were simply flabbergasted.”) Best of all are Sheehan’s efforts to honestly grapple with how to convey the pleasure he had from the five-star fish emporium. It’s not like we get to Le Bernardin that much, either — the last time we ate The Ripper’s cooking, it was a take-out container of baby eels.
Related: Le Bernardin’s VIPs Get Baby Eels