Now that winter is gone (fingers crossed), I am out of hibernation. I pass by Rocky the Musical. Someone has to really love Rocky. The theme song plays in my head while I wonder if a clause is in contract about gulping raw eggs: how many per show, what farm source, etc. And was there an understudy if the lead developed Salmonella?
I move onto the MOMA. Featuring Guaguin's girls. I wish I could wear a large billowy muu-muu with only one worry in life: what flower should I tuck behind my ear? I was born in the wrong time.
And then I spot something quite spectacular. The lines of people wrapped around the block of the CBS building was endless. From young to old, from hipsters to bankers, from natives to tourists, the line was insane. Was it a bread line? Holy cow! It's come to this. Our food's being rationed.
The last time I waited on any outrageous line was back in the 90's. That was when I had never been to a night club before. The wait was one hour in front of a barn that had turned into something Mormons would call Hell on Earth. Finally, the impossibly gorgeous drag queen deemed my friends and I passable, took our $20's, and ushered us inside.
The noise was deafening. I shouted to friends, "It's way too noisy. My inner cochlea's taking a beating and I just can't think. I'm sorry, we are going to get out of here but don't worry, I'll get our money back." They all rolled their eyes. I politely explained to the drag queen who was probably more gorgeous than any supermodel of the day.
"Excuse me. I'm sorry, but it's a bit too loud in there." She looked me over, and said in the huskiest voice, "Honey, it's a club." Nevertheless, she returned our cover charge and my friends didn't speak to me for weeks.
I was grateful because I was so intimidated by her beauty and her je ne sais quois - the quois being a chameleonesque, uber-survivor skillset that can only come from being bred in places like Nebraska, Wyoming, or Idaho. They are bred for immunity to la vida loca. I always said the best New Yorkers were from the Mid-West.
But back to the present longest line I would see today. The line was for the largest Halal cart operation ever seen. I changed my mind. Maybe the best New Yorkers come from Halal country. Because lo and behold, this crazy operation is so efficient and effective, I am blown away. It's The Halal Guys.
I was not going to wait on the line, but I was curious enough to ask these lovely girls how they enjoyed their meal. They liked it just fine. They were actually traveling from London and made sure to pay a visit. But how did you know where they were? "Oh, we found them on Facebook."
I look at The Halal Guys' cart and had to laugh. The "f" for Facebook is placed in the most inconspicuous place - really not at eye level. "The Halal" signage is covered by Reynolds wrap. "Guys" is all that's left. This is incredible. There are just as many Halal carts as there are Starbucks, but this is the one that's branded, drawing just about every omnivore / carnivore on the planet. From postal clerks to Consulates, each waited his turn patiently. They looked more docile than a lamb over rice.
If this was Casablanca and Rick owned the operation, Ingrid Bergman would quietly take her place behind a man wearing too much cologne. Soon behind, a cell phone chatterbox would queue up behind her. Frayed with nerves, she would doubt if she could wait it out - not even knowing who owned the place.
Rick spots her and sighs, "Of all the Halal joints in the world, she has to stand in line for mine". The nice sucker that he is, he'd put her into a cab, tell the driver to pass the queue and pull up closer to 53rd and 6th. The cabbie gives the magic password to "Guys" that spares her the indignities of waiting on a really long line.
Finally, Rick leans toward her open window and says how they'll always have Paris. She forgot Paris years ago and her eyes glaze over. But her ears perk up at his last words, "...And Ilsa, you must remember this - don't forget to ask for the red and white sauce." He then instructs cabbie to take Ilsa straight home after she gets her grub. And all the way to Stamford Connecticut, Ilsa devours her gyro while Victor re-heats some day-old lasagna.
If you must play it safe like Ilsa, only go to food carts that have really long lines. Happy Spring! ~e
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