This is the season for reality checks on Union Square. I stopped to inspect the corn even though I should have learned last week, and as I was turning away from the piles of shrunken ears, I overheard an accented voice say: “They are so small.” To which the kid collecting dollars said, “Well, it’s early. They’ll get bigger later on.” And the response: “Why don’t you let them grow?” Foolish foreigner. When you can get 50 cents now, why wait?
Random funnies I’ve overheard lately: Hustling up Eighth Avenue and late for lunch, I passed a heavyset sweating woman pushing a dolly stacked with Sid Wainer boxes and thought how odd that was on that street, dominated as it is by fast food crapola. Just as I got in front of her and her cellphone, I heard: “Where the fuck is DB Bistro Modern?” (Short “I” in Bistro, too.) I didn’t have the heart to point out that she was a long way from maison. And then there was the fill-in elevator operator in our building who was trained to put shareholders first, leaving no deliveryman unattended. He had a full complement of privileged residents and one Asian guy with a steaming aromatic bag in hand when I got on. After the fourth stop to pick up more people, the bag man started screaming in Chinese (I guess). And the Hispanic kid just responded: “I hear what you’re saying, but I can’t leave you alone.” Floor after floor, fury in Chinese was countered by calm in English. He was good. And then he was gone. Clearly, frustration is a universal language.
My decision to always eat incognito at Pearl Oyster Bar was validated when I stopped in for a late lunch at the bar next to three not-small women whose order was sent to the kitchen with a “VIP this, show ’em some love.” They were whimpering trying to finish their over-heaped plates while I was feeling beaten not even halfway through my usual skate sandwich. Those portions are beyond generous even for the hoi polloi. (I am always absurdly grateful when friends benefit, though.) Besides, who needs extras when you can hear a repeated dis of “Anthony” for advising diners never to order fish on a Monday, or overhear an explanation of the draconian 2:30 cutoff of lunch orders (the tiny kitchen needs every second to prep for dinner)? It’s the best place in town for lunch and a show.