The Post's Cindy Adams has terrible meal at an unnamed fish joint, a "neighborhood place in the West '70s." The five chic hostesses won't seat her while the restaurant is empty—"This joint was so quiet, you could hear the overhead piling up"—it takes her ages to get a salad, she's forced to endure a "stupid" amuse bouche, and don't even get her stared on the frivolous silverware. Luckily Adams gets justice in the end: "This dinner was last Thursday. When I passed by yesterday there was a padlock on the door and a For Sale sign on the gate." [NYP via SE]
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