Play the Cellphone Restaurant Autocorrect Text Messaging Game


My smart phone is much funnier than I am. Recently, a friend asked where he could throw a birthday party for himself. After mulling the question over, taking into account his preferences in location, cuisine, and price level, I texted back Del Posto. The phone’s auto-correct function sprung into action, and the message I inadvertently sent him said Del Postoperative, which is presumably the place where you recover from a meal at Del Posto.

So I decided to keep track of the funnier restaurant misspellings accomplished by my phone. Here are some more. Please tell us ones you’ve encountered and maybe we can start a website, and get a $100,000 advance on a book contract — or maybe not.

My cell phone often seems racially biased. When asked for a downtown Latin restaurant where one could get decent mojitos and pernil, I texted back Richard Cardona’s restaurant Sazon. My phone changed it to Saxon, making me seem very white-bread.

Even though Tony Bourdain probably hasn’t actually set foot in Les Halles in years, he’s probably still the chef of record there, and it’s really the only answer to the question, “Where’s Bourdain’s restaurant in NYC?” But when I input the answer into my smart phone, Les Halles turns into Les Galled, which is kind of an accurate review of the place.

You literary types will appreciate this: My phone turned Babbo, Mario Batali’s most famous restaurant, into Babbit, a lefty novel about a salesman by Sinclair “Red” Lewis.

The wine bar I Tre Merli, once in Soho but now in the West Village, turns into I Treatment Merlin, which is actually a good name for a restaurant, suggesting all sorts of Saxon hocus-pocus, and food that might be described as “magic.”

Sometimes a transformed text about a restaurant turns into a social statement. Asked to recommend a place in the South Street Seaport, I immediately texted back Acqua at Peck Slip. It instantly, via St. Autocorrect, turned into the very refined sounding Acquainted at Peck Slip.

Trattoria Cinque, an Italian joint in Tribeca that’s not half bad, owned by an Italian chain, turns into Trattoria Conquest, sounding like a bastion of imperialism.