Open Letter to Hungry People in NY

Dear Those that Hunger and Thirst Like I Do At Traditional Meal Times,



When I was growing up, Sunday dinner was almost as important as attending church. Everybody knew that if the Baptist service didn't end at noon sharp we'd never reach the Golden Corral before the Methodists did and we'd have to wait (always graciously thanking the Catholics for going to mass on Sunday mornings, or even better, Saturday nights to make way for the hungry stampede of Baptists on Sunday afternoons). Dining out after church is a tradition my husband and I continued after our marriage began. It never failed that just after the offering, but before the special music, my husband would put his arm around me, lean in close and whisper, "Hey...where do you want to go for lunch?". This was never a problem when we lived in Texas. We'd always park strategically, backing in to our spot near the church parking lot exit so that we could haul out of church like bats out of hell and scurry on down to El Chico's (with our bulletin in hand for a 20% church bulletin discount!). In New York, this is not a tradition we continue for a variety of reasons, however mostly because you just can't get a meal at noon on a Sunday to save your life.



We tried it once. We walked quite a long ways actually to "restaurant row" on Third Avenue only to be greeted by a long line of "closed" signs. No matter that their hours of operation were posted and that they should have long been serving up the slices and the noodles and whatever else they made. But the doors were locked. We walked for, no lie, 6 blocks before coming to a place that, upon seeing us tugging at their locked door, let us in. I felt like Mary and Joseph the night Jesus was born. Take pity on us. Let us into your stable so we may dine. I'm wearing uncomfortable shoes that are making my heels bleed (a common theme for me). How a restaurant can forget to unlock their doors an hour after they are supposed to be open is beyond me. If I were working for tips, I'd be darned sure that door was open. Time is money. Except in NY.

I have my theories about why you cannot get a meal to save your life at a restaurant at noon on a Sunday. Realistically, we're white bread Baptists living in the land of enthusiastic, high metabolizing Italian Catholics. Those people have done their church thing the night before. They had breakfast at a diner and then went over to Mama Leone's (or whoever their mama is) and gathered around her table with 75 of their closest relatives for chicken cutlets, antipasti, homemade bread, macaroni (which I've learned means all manner of pasta, and most definitely NOT the cheesy box mix you and I are thinking of), and cannolis. Honestly, if I had that option every Sunday I would be doing the same thing. But not all of us have a Mama Leone (although I do have a close family friend we call Mama E up in Pearl River and if it weren't such a long drive, I'd be up there every night for dinner!)

So, for us it's PB&J on white bread or leftovers. For now. But once we're back south of that Mason Dixon, we're all about the stampede once again. And maybe next time we'll do the Olive Garden (oooooohhhh....that's sacrilege!)

Double Hugs, Double Kiss, Double Sauce on My Macaroni,
L.