We go to No. 1 Dumpling House on Eldridge Street. We crowd inside and look at the grill cook lifting the sesame pancakes out of the oil.
       “I want a sesame pancake with scallions and carrots,” I say. The grill cook throws water on the grill and slams a metal lid over the dumplings to trap them inside, with the steam. Then he starts cutting up the pancakes. He stuffs them with scallions and carrots and puts them in waxed paper bags. He hands them over the counter to the Chinese people. A white girl comes in. She’s wearing tall boots and a body stocking. She has a heavy gold chain around her hips, with a gold elephant head in the middle. The grill cook hands her a waxed paper bag.  
       “That was my pancake,” I say. “It’s okay.”
       “Do you think she goes to the Columbia School of Journalism?” asks the depressed man.
       “I think she just got married to a party promoter,” I say. “They are married, but they are in no way slaves to convention. They are non-traditionalists in the deepest sense.  They will give their baby a faux-hawk and every Sunday they will vary their brunches. Some Sundays they will brunch on buckwheat pancakes with raspberry sauce and other Sundays they will brunch on novelty pirogi.”
       “Pumpkin pirogi?” says the depressed man.
       “I meant blintzes,” I say. It is very hot in No. 1 Dumpling House and the depressed man is not insightful. He is failing to make creative connections. The white girl looks right at me. She has that smoky eye make-up. She’s holding the waxed paper bag in both hands.      
       “It’s okay,” I say. I wish I were wearing a body stocking. I would be working on my novel in a body stocking, with Dave, drinking, probably a gimlet.   
       “I should be working on my novel right now,” I say. “Sorry, I need to say that sometimes. It’s a nervous tic. I’m having a good time.”  
       “There’s nothing for us here,” says the depressed man. The depressed man is looking bleakly at the grill.  
       “Is that a quote?” I say. Most of the food on the grill is either beige or off-white. A cop comes in. The grill cook gives a waxed paper bag to the cop. The cop sniffs it. I think about the billboards, 1-800-Cop-Shot. I think about the little red lasers people put on their key-chains.
       “I am pulling out my derringer,” I say. The cop looks at me. I lean against the wall so the cop can squeeze past. The cop takes a Coke out of the cooler.   
       “Let’s get Cuban sandwiches,” says the depressed man. We walk to the block with the Cuban sandwich shops. I look at the Cuban flags.
       “Is this new?” I say. “This block?” The depressed man orders two Cuban sandwiches in to-go containers.
       “Let’s walk to the park,” says the depressed man. We sit on a bench and open the containers. I bite my Cuban sandwich. It is extremely delicious. I feel manipulated.
       “Wonder Bread is not Cuban,” I say. “Wonder Bread is a franchise. There are no franchises in Cuba.”
       “The Cuban revolution is a franchise,” says the depressed man.
       “Castro drives a Ford,” I say. “Ford is a franchise.”