Today I'm eating lunch out again since Marcia gave me $25 yesterday and told me to start doing it. It's hard to bring your lunch when the temperature is only in the 20s and your lunch sits in a vehicle all morning, leaving it nice and chilled by the time you eat it. So today I get to splurge on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Yesterday I ate at a Subway. Today I am at the Elim Cafe located on Lexington Avenue between 64th and 65th streets. The temperature has been freezing cold this week, and the problem with both restaurants is that each has small seating areas near the front door. On both days, I've been getting blasted with arctic air each time someone comes in or leaves. This is made worse by the way New Yorkers come in and out of a restaurant, acting as if they are all somebody. (I know, some of them are.) You can see this in the way they fling the doors wide open and strut in, as if every one of them is Brad Pitt or Angeline Jolie. It would be nice if people would just barely open the door and slip out quietly. The trash guy just walked out as if he were Elvis. . . “Ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the building” . . . The wind caught and extended the door as far as it opens and held it there, letting a gale force icy blast of air rush in right at me. My whole body shivered and shook involuntarily until the air warmed up again. Because it is so cold even in the restaurant, I zipped my uniform jacket all the way up to my ears trying to stay warm. I'm even wearing my stocking cap inside, especially since my hair gets so matted down from wearing the stocking cap that I can't not wear it. I look ridiculous without it.
I walked into the restaurant intending to order Udon noodles with beef. I decided this from a piece of paper taped in the window with a nice bold font listing the various Udon-noodle options. Plus, I like to say, “Udon noodle.” When I got in the restaurant though, to the left was a deli-style counter with a big menu above the entire area with no mention of Udon noodles. To the right was a buffet-style line with a sign that said, $6.99/lb with no sign of Udon noodles. The deli counter with the massive menu and the buffet did not seem to be the same genres of food selection, and seemed to be an Italian American-Asian hybrid restaurant. All of the choices confused me. A Liberace-like entrance just occurred, and when the doors flung open the wind chilled me to the bone. I decided to play it safe and order something on the menu, right above the deli-counter guy's head . . . a Southwest wrap. I then went to the restroom since I've learned that in Manhattan a person should always go to a public restroom when one is seen, and when I return to the counter my wrap is ready. I pay, get my self-service coffee, and take the best open seat, which happens to be in a perfect geometric angle to the front door. Each time the door opens, I feel like I am at the end of a wind tunnel and the Polar Express is coming right at me. After about thirty minutes of eating the hefty wrap and being pummeled by a relentless barrage of cold air blasts, I get a call to meet the driver at 62nd and Park. I strut to the door myself, hearing the thumping bass line of the Bee Gees' Stayin' Alive in my head, and fling the door open to leave, New York style. A blast of air blows by me, seeking someone else this time.