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Let’s forget the gooey title of the piece, “Little Fountain Cafe: Sweet Love.” And let’s forget that the title doesn’t even make sense. The little restaurant specializes as the Place for a Dull First Date or the Place You Take Your Parents. As far as we know, it does not specialize in sweets or sweet love.

Let’s forget the odd use of italics, the problems with grammar, and this sentence: “Walking downstairs into the Café you pass by the little fountain, the centerpiece of the restaurant’s most private table, outside, below the chaos of 18th St., Jumbo Slice, and the maddening vehicular escapades of taxis hitting passersby, underage drunkards lining the street for a table at Tryst or gathering together for one last charge to Ben’s Chili Bowl where, inevitably, they will vomit while in line.”

Let’s forget the writer’s description of the place: “the Little Fountain Café resembles that of a sophisticated, older, wiser lover. We’re talking ‘Tell Me You Love Me’ passion here. There’s artwork you want to make love to; there’s food you can savor. It’s a night out that offers glimpses into why you choose to stay monogamous.” So, how does one fuck artwork?

And let’s forget the boilerplate run-down of the chow.

No, let’s linger on this one line—from the first graph no less—that just boggles: “Bono, Coldplay, Billy Joel, and smooth jazz covers by Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald enhance an already private affair.”

There’s a number of things wrong with this sentence. Can you help point out all the wrong?

I can start things off with the obvious: The writer’s belief that Billy Joel enhances anything.