Dining for one in NYC... & other rambling thoughts

Last night I had the inevitable "time to kill" between work and seeing my friend in his show. Not enough time to do something productive, but a touch long to grab that quick bite. But as it was a snowy Tuesday evening, I needed to just decide on place and park myself. There are multitudes of eateries one could happen upon in this great city, from the healthy to the not-so. I came upon this place, that I had seen many times- although have never patronized:




I know, clever name. Leaves you wondering just what's on the menu... it's literally a glorified table at the storefront, where one walks up, and orders and receives chicken out of the back of some other restaurant's kitchen. I am sure it's very tasty, and on the up and up health code-wise -I mean it's right out in the open on 44th Street- but no thanks. Not tonight.

I amble (because that's what you to do in slushy snow, you amble) into Burritoville (pop. 208), and remove layers so as to make myself comfortable. Burritoville is an easy choice for me- a somewhat normal haunt, plenty of locations thorughout the city- mainly because they grace me with the options of soy cheese and tofu sour cream (I know, I know- ewww... but it is actually good, and with my stomach you make do). I order, stake my place and head to the restroom to wash my hands.

We all have nemesis in this world. After I washed my hands I turned to face one of mine. The automatic paper towel dispenser. One just needs to wave one's hand in front of the little sensor and the towels come sliding out, accompanied by the noise of its inner machinery. Now, my dislike for these automated devices doesn't isn't limited to the towel dipsensers- add sinks, toilets and the like to the list (Toilets and urinals are by far the most congenial, flushing and spraying water while I am still using them). Now in theory, these things are great- I'm no germaphob, but the idea of not having to touch things like these in a public restroom is inviting- if only they registered my presence. I could wave my hands, jump up and down, what have you- and this damn thing won't deliver.

I'm like the guy in the commercial where he's trying like crazy to get the water to come out of the automatic sunk, and finally moves to another sink, only to have the sink he just left finally come on (I actually don't know if such a commercial exists, but I think does- and quite frankly it should exist if it doesn't). You may watch this commercial, and laugh. Or think it's stupid say, "that never happens." I watch it and my pulse increases (close-up on the sweat, beading at his temple), thinking of the next public struggle that awaits me.

And yes, these demonic devices usually do wind up completing their pre-appointed tasks for me, but only after they have deafeated me. I have sworn many times that any second I was going to be ambushed by Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew. But alas. My dinner was good, by the way. The story has a happy ending.

And my friend's show was great. Go see it:

Two Thousand Years at The New Group .