“ I'm here at one o'clock in the afternoon with a buddy of mine I haven't seen in a while. Someone tells us that we will be seated shortly. The hostess is three feet behind her. She wasn't kidding. We ask to sit outside, because the breeze and the Hudson sun today are perfectly complementary, and I long for a climatically optimal lunch. We are immediately seated under a large, nearly opaque umbrella, because I was born under a dark star. The three or four menus the waitress brings out offer a wide variety of sandwich-adjacent fare. I settle on the adult peanut butter and jelly sandwich, because who knows what culinary genius lurks behind such an obviously stupid premise, and when will I ever be given a second opportunity to answer that question for myself? I also order the soup sampler, because I am a Libra (sun AND moon). The waitress we didn't get keeps coming out to her tables--you know the one I mean, the one who's in training, the one who's too good for this job, or this world, the one who missed her calling as a Teen Vogue cover model. The joke, this time, is on the Tempter; the only sort of longing that springs forth from my jaded heart is for a quiet death and a long, slow funeral. This happens three or four times before our waitress returns to, and I am not making this up, what she has begun to call "the table of starvation." I don't really know what she was talking about. We haven't been waiting for long. Maybe ten minutes from when we walked into the place. I guess their service is usually even faster. I am enjoying my time under the umbrella, thank you. I do not need you to rush on my account. The soup is amazing. I have three soups. They're all amazing. I liked soup before; now, I love soup. I am in love with soup. I am going to learn how to cook soup, soup like this, soup you could settle down with, raise children with, retire with, and live out your dwindling days with, you know, the sort of thing that exactly failed to happen for me. Yes, I am projecting my lack of romantic fulfillment onto soup, rather than onto Hot Waitress. Not today, Satan. She smiled at me because that is her job, I tell myself, and I am correct. The sandwich is stupid, after all. It does not even inspire a longing for the childhood joy of peanut butter and jelly on a slow summer afternoon. Don't get me wrong; it tastes good. I ate all of it. It's a good, even excellent execution of a terrible, too-sweet, too-nostalgic idea. The menu needs to be renovated, not with scissors and paste, but with a chainsaw. I do not need more than seven sandwich choices. I want to have a different sandwich every day of the week, and I want them all to be good, because you are focusing on what you are good at. Make normal sandwiches, make them well, and have one seasonal special, and make it fantastic. Our waitress correctly recommends the lemon mascarpone thing. It's perfect. She plated it herself, she says, with love. I can tell. I feel special, so I'm not going to take a picture of it. I like this place. I like the fish decanter they brought my delicious, refreshing strawberry oolong iced tea out in. I really do love the soup. If I lived here, I'd come back and try a normal sandwich, and I think it would be good, because whoever is cooking here can cook. I take the back way out, and the sun hits me for the first time in an hour. I can still smell the soup cooking. I long for it. For it, and for that funeral. ”