I was at Union Square the other sweltering day, paying for yet another bag of hope over experience (the peaches this summer seem to rot before they ripen), when I overheard the most astounding request. The guy taking my dollars told another worker under the tent to go for lunch while things were slow and “get me a roast beef sandwich.” That was it. No mention of type of bread, mayonnaise or mustard, lettuce and tomato, cheese — nothing. The guy wanted a roast beef sandwich. Now I realize I have lived here too long. Nothing is that simple. A cup of coffee needs more qualifiers than your average Halliburton contract. This is the world capital of crazy-that-comes-from-too-much-choice. If someone asked me for a roast beef sandwich I would have an easier time making toast for Jack Nicholson. At least I would know what to do with the chicken salad.