I was in Queens. I’m never in Queens. But my blind date insisted.
“Mama G’s is the tits,” he assured me. “Next level shit.”
The restaurant was good. Not worthy of outer borough travel good. But good. Then came the check.
“Split, right?”
Mister Investment Banker wasn’t shy about flaunting his wealth, but now this? I agreed anyway. And regretted it immediately.
“Scusa Senora, cash only,” said the waiter.
Which was how I found myself walking these desolate sidewalks alone, looking for a machine. I passed the entrance to the F train. Smiled.
Dining and dashing never sounded so good.
The Weekday One Hundred 