Saturday, July 21, 2007

Concept Restaurants

Too bad I don't have $6 million to throw around. If I did, my entrepreneurship would be nigh-on on unstoppable. First, I would establish a series of concept restaurants.

Watch: Closed-circuit TV cameras and large flat-screen TVs are mounted all over the white, otherwise undecorated walls and ceiling of this very sleek restaurant. You are served generous portions of expensive gourmet food, but you can't avoid the televised sight of yourself or others eating it. People in a control booth will be able to zoom in on chosen eaters and annotate scenes with JumboTron-like humor and commentary. They can also switch on a special nutrient-imaging system that brings the most fatty parts of your meal into infrared-style relief as they dangle half-gnawed from your mouth. Think you can hide from the self-consciousness in the bathroom? Spend more than 15 minutes there, and the camera in your stall goes live. No one goes to a restaurant to watch people eat, but that's going to change, whether anyone likes it or not.
If it's your birthday: You'll be served our Giant Flourless Chocolate Surveillance Cake. A small camera placed inside it exposes your hoggery—yep, looking right up into your syrup-smeared face—as you dig further and further in. One year greedier, motherfucker!

The Meat Locker: It's kind of cold inside this restaurant. You enter through a large, insulated door, which is slammed behind you from the outside. There is barely room for a table in here, because you'll be eating your massive, bloody, choice-cut steak amid swinging sides of meat. Move your plate aside for a sec—the butcher needs some workspace.
If it's your birthday: PETA slaughterhouse footage will be projected on the walls/sides for free.

Drunken Derby: Live out your drunken-driving fantasy in bumper cars with realistic handling, safety reinforcements, and mandatory $10,000,000 insurance policies. Obstacles, precarious curves, amputee stuntmen you can hit, ice patches, storefronts to crash through, traffic signals to defy—this ain't no lonely suburban back road as your paper-bagged bottle of Early Times dribbles away down by the clutch. "Officers" pull you over to unload fresh servings of booze and gourmet nachos into your vehicle. "Sir, I'm gonna have to issue you a citation—of Wild Turkey 101 proof! No, sir, you haven't had enough—save it for the judge."
If it's your birthday: Suck down that complimentary bottle of Andre fast, get your drunkymobile up to full-speed, and put on this NASCAR-surplus firesuit we hope still works, because you've got a Flaming Birthday Baked Alaska Wall to plow into.


This map's on the bathroom wall at a local bar, and it appears vandalism is welcome because people draw and write shit all over it. I figured I'd add to their list of Iceland-associated artists. (Just Bjork? C'mon.) This is exactly the kind of place, though, that would attract someone who knows a bunch more obscure Icelandic stuff, yet has the dignity not to go around writing it on bathroom walls. And no, the middle finger isn't mine. In retrospect, maybe I should have included "part of Fields."