The only physical energy I expended over this was walking down Ninth Avenue with a friend for 15 blocks looking for a place with a booth where we could sit, have lunch and catch the other up with our respective lives over the past couple of years. Booths in restaurants and bars, we discovered, have largely disappeared, replaced by long rows of high tables at Italian espresso-bar stool height, not exactly conducive, at least to old 'uns like us, to tete-a-tetes (use your imagination for the accent marks).
We finally ended up, like the tourists we now are, in a place on Restaurant Row called Bourbon Street ,where we were among the earliest of lunch customers, it being only 11:30. We were able to pile into a semi-circular booth big enough for six, spread out our coats and Daffy's shopping bags and immediately feel at home.
Suitably, for a Mars return in Neptune-ruled Pisces, we were able to get pleasantly woozy washing down our red beans and rice and three-cheese grits with four or five two-for-one beers (it was Fat Tuesday) and at the same time, as we nobly chose to drink Restoration Ale, we could congratulate ourselves on aiding the rebuilding effort in New Orleans. Sorry God.
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