I've been variously busy, drunk, sick, amazingly sick, and so sick I was doubled over in pain in the lavs of Doncaster station these last few weeks. So if you opened an utterly rotten restaurant in Brooklyn recently, then you got away with it. Bully for you. Not that there have not been shenanigans afoot in the Brooklyn hostelry "space". First, Picasso is busted for outrageous sockpuppetry on the Brooklynian message boards, and then, shortly before the start of my "ill" period, I dined at Flatbush Farm. Coincidence? I think not.