A Return to Feld

Maybe the only thing more horrible than being forced to toast s’mores and make small talk with your executioner is realizing they’re wielding a dull blade.

But before we get to that, I should probably set the table, because I don’t know if you were here eight months ago when I declared that the meal I had at the then three-week old Feld restaurant in West Town was one of the worst meals I experienced in my professional food writing career.

It was asserted by some that I said this for the clicks. I did not. It was exactly what I said it was.

But even the worst things have another context that’s often out of view.