asks Josh. After last night, I assumed this morning we’d linger, but he had us up and out. Showered and dressed, hailing a cab to take me for, you got it, a surprise. “They should have a table any minute.” “Oh, good,” I say. “It is a little cold.” Last night was wonderful. Much better, we took a very sensual leap. The romantic I am thought we’d stay at his apartment, where we’d spend the day in bed with Sunday’s New York Times. Cooking omelets and drinking Bloody Marys. So when the cab drove uptown through the park over to the West Side, I had no idea where we’d be going. But I sure am sorry it turned out to be here. “It’s worth the wait,” he says of the line that’s so far out the door it practically reaches the corner. “Barney Greengrass is my total favorite for Sunday morning Jew food. They’re also one of our best customers. You know this place?” “Mmmmm,” I say, instead of mentioning I spent my entire childhood here splitting the lox platter. Exactly nine and a half blocks from my parents’ apartment, I can only pray they really are in Plantation Island or maybe slept in New Jersey.
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