DINNER RUSH

If you decide to watch Dinner Rush, do yourself a favor and pay attention.

If you decide to watch Dinner Rush, do yourself a favor and pay attention. It's one of those sleepy, unassuming movies that seems to be going nowhere, then suddenly delivers a huge payoff. Don't, for example, choose that evening to finish the latch hook rug that's been passed around your family since 1972. This is an especially poor idea if, like me, you start working like a child in a third world sweat shop once you get started on one of those things. No one's going to pay you 8 cents an hour for your trouble, and you'll just wind up giving your friends descriptions of the movie as that are as vague as the one I'm about to give you.

Okay, so there's this restaurant, and it's owned by Danny Aiello. His son, or nephew, or neighbor boy works in this restaurant, and based on his performance this evening, he will either become head chef, part owner, or Danny Aiello's favorite guy. I was a little unclear on this point, but I gathered that the evening was especially important. A prominent food critic is also paying them a visit, so tensions are running pretty high in the kitchen. The movie is actually a lot like those restauranty reality shows that keep popping up, and takes place in real time.

At the bar is Ken (John Corbett), a quietly charming man, whom I understood to be the food critic until Sandra Bernhard showed up. I'm not sure if this was implied to throw the audience off, or if I just imagined it in my latch hooking stupor. Meanwhile, in the dining room, customers are getting hungry and testy as they wait for service. It's a very busy night, and urban Italian restaurants draw all sorts of people. Some of them are connected to the mafia, and it seems likely that a hit will go down. I anticipated a splashy shootout in the dining room, but instead we witness a carefully planned and discreetly executed murder that comes as a complete surprise. By this point, the movie was nearly over, and I just wanted to kick myself for not paying better attention.

The only time I put down that stupid latch hook was when John Corbett was onscreen. Luckily he has the best part in the movie, and does a superb job in it. I'd feel like more of a boob if I'd kept my eye on another character all night, but still—I now have to endure all the cooking, whining, and bickering again so I can properly appreciate the whole thing. With the finished latch hook rug (in all its hideous brown and orange glory) rolled up in my closet, at least I'll be able to concentrate.