It’s not quite snowing when eggwhites enter from the diamond window door and Grade A Fancy whipped cream confidence and stainless steel shine aren’t enough to unsmudge my ruminations: Do only women have legs on TV? Do the French know about the toast they left at the next table? Do the Greeks behind the counter know where they hid the Parthenon key? Outside, everyone seems to have a direction, no one pauses to absorb the squeaky clean House of Lever, maybe they’re already thinking about what’s for lunch. Not me, I’m still at the Stone last night, nerves twitching on John Zorn’s vibrato fat and wide like a melancholy duck stuttering to work in camouflage pants a long-necked matzo ball solo on a turkey bacon flight to the last westbound whiskey bar in Hell’s Kitchen deep in the stacks at the Strand Bookstore somewhere between History and Philosophy when time crystalised and you were there. Then a guy sits down at the counter and looks just like any other guy, no one even notices that he looks the same as the guy who just left.
Breakfast with Frank