I am, however, worried about street fairs, the scourge of Manhattan in summertime. I had the surreal experience the other day of fleeing overly perfumed Bloomingdale’s and walking right into a particularly smelly one, the first I’ve encountered this year, so I walked the length of it just to see how disgusting the food was and wonder, yet again, who might possibly be eating it. And it was dominated by the usual vendors from an alternate universe, hawking their scary charred starch on the cob and “mozzarepas” and Italian sausages reeking weirdly of urine. But I also passed a stand hyping Korean barbecue. And another serving up made-to-order lobster rolls and banh mi. What next? Falafel supplanted by schnitzel? And where are the fucking cupcakes?