For meat-eaters who cannot fathom the profundity of surf-n-turf, Kavanaugh's suggests this handy conceit: a foul beast composed of the surf's and the turf's representatives. This way, the koan-like truth of their menu is made accessible at last.
That the Piscow, as it will hereafter be known, offers itself as a paragon of sophistication—the martini held aloft is the universal sign for "What ho! Care to join me?"—does nothing to soften the blow.
What is it with these culinary Drs. Moreaux and their appetite-challenging bastardizations? (Students of suicide food will remember these other "beloved" suicide food chimerae: the Bottomfeeders Chiggish and the Fat Crabs Porcrab.)
They do nothing so much as call into question the naturalness of the whole affair. By featuring animals that exist only in the minds of, shall we say, the excessively imaginative, these establishments undermine their own cause.