Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Lunch on Me: The New Yorker Takes Care of the Problem
Here's lunch, pictured. I will tell you what I told Leah as I served dinner* Saturday night: "Get out a towel. This will make you cry because it tastes like romance."
There can be no discussion of the New Yorker without at least a mention of its throwback practice of cash-only sales. It has been that way since I ate there for the first time in 1981. I'm sure it has always been thus. It remains an impediment to me eating there.
I can't go on the spur of the moment because I rarely carry as much as $10 in cash (cost of a typical sandwich, side, drink). I asked the counter guy this morning how often people don't have cash and don't know the policy. "About once a day," he said. "We let them run to to a cash machine and get the money, then come back and pay us." There's a machine close-by.
(*Dinner: pan grilled salmon done to a turn; cole slaw made with white balsamic vinegar, stevia, celery seed, shredded carrots and McCormack mayo; cinnamon-tinged fried Staymen apples with no added sweetener; broccoli/cheddar soup.)