Diners wary of kitsch would do well to avoid Paul Sevigny’s newest Midtown eatery, Snacks ‘n’ Wheels. The space, which is only accessible via a series of escalators inside a purpose-built edifice with stainless steel signs advertising The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. The naming being, one must assume, a nod to the Beaux-Arts masterpiece which once housed the Port Authority thirty blocks down 8th Avenue.

Much like Damien Hirst’s short-lived hospital-themed restaurant in Berlin, Snacks attempts to insult and assault the reader’s senses with all manner of unappetizing stimuli. The sprawling complex spanning forty-first street, which exists solely to titillate Mr. Sevigny’s customers, is jam-packed with odious smells. In my exploration, I was exposed to the entire gamut of human smells, artfully crafted by the French perfumer Giverny Garçes. It’s hard to imagine Garçes’ horror at having to use his extensive knowledge of scents to simulate a highway restroom. Still, the effect isn’t lost on the Theater District crowds that peripitate inside the building, probably waiting for their allotted time to dine.

Upon descending the final escalator, the sticky, human odor reaches its crescendo. To drive the message home, the concourse outside the restaurant features a prominent, massive restroom entrance that reeks of an overflowing latrine. Past this, the complex was built to resemble a 1970s Greyhound terminal. Savvy diners would do well to make early reservations, as Snacks has very limited seating. Here, perhaps, Paul has gone too far in employing unkempt actors to simulate homeless travelers.

Unfortunately, the upscale-downscale craze, which crowds magazines with accounts of $170 prix fixe dinners served cafeteria-style, reaches its apex at Snacks. Despite reserving a table two months in advance, we were forced to wait in a line staffed with actors as they, in full Method, pondered ordering a withered (non-organic!) apple or a (non-artisan!) bagel wrapped in plastic. The maitre’d, in a calculatedly stained smock, took our order and responded in a thick Hackensack brogue.

We took a seat next to a particularly convincing actress simulating raucous snores while slumped over a shopping cart filled with carefully selected clutter. My wife and I applauded the artfully choreographed mise en scéne. All artifice aside, the reason Snacks was anointed upon opening with three Michelin stars, was the food. The amusee bouche course, which consisted of fennel rubbed foie gras strips served on imitation urinal cakes, gave us an indication of the blend of elegance and panache typical of the first stages of a Sevigny endeavor.

Some of the appetizers, truth be told, can step into the realm of the truly bizarre. One such dish, a serpentine spray of ginger-infused of butter served on a square of faux-dirty tile, was to be mopped up by sponge-shaped green rectangles of toasted baguette. The ersatz act of cleaning up a river of urine and eating the result was too much for one diner, who ran to the fetid-smelling bathroom entrance before discovering it was, in fact, the entrance to the kitchen.

Entrees, which in the hands of a less delicate proprietor might fall into the artless trap of roast duck outfitted to resemble raccoon, truly shine. Sevigny has ground the competition into the ground with his selection of group entrées, which Snacks’ actors will gladly finish for diners who order too much. Don’t miss the duck flambé. Served on an obsidian platter, two whole roast ducks are arranged in the driver and passenger seats inside an edible imitation of the front half of a crashed 1976 Thunderbird, which belches flames from the accordion-compressed hood. In a final touch, a stuffed Cornish hen is imbedded in the hood, the ostensible cause of the accident. The entire assemblage is doused in incarnadine gooseberry glaze, giving the diners the enviable task of disassembling and consuming the bloody wreck.

The wine selection, as is to be expected, is also top-notch. One might wonder at the scale of the two-city-block complex’s size, but Sevigny’s conceit is that such a vast wine selection necessitates many climate-controlled cellars. In the environs of the restaurant, each ’70s style bus gate opens into what Wine Lover once called “an Ankor Wat-scale temple to viticulture.” One must ignore the lines of sommeliers cleverly disguised as unkempt tourists waiting to depart to Atlantic City.

With mom.

Accompanying my mom to get a new chinrest for her violin

Reading Proust with my cat.

Rage!

Going to see Myra Breckinridge at the Film Society of Lincoln Center, with Racqel Welch in person!