‘There was only one table that we didn’t use in the end’
Party of 10
Dear Diary:
My husband and I got married one morning in 2009 at Manhattan City Hall. A few people had to go to work after the ceremony. The rest of us, feeling hungry, went to a Belgian restaurant on West Broadway that has since closed.
The place wasn’t really set up for a party of 10 people, but the staff made do and pushed some tables together to accommodate us.
There was only one small table that we didn’t use in the end. There was a man in his thirties working on a laptop.
We placed our orders and started taking pictures of each other. The man working on his laptop asked if we wanted a photo of the entire group.
We thanked him for his offer and he took a few pictures. Then we went back to celebrating and he turned back to his computer.
He left at some point after our food arrived, and I can’t remember if we said goodbye.
When we finished and my father asked for the check, the waitress told us not to worry. The man with the laptop had already paid the bill.
– Ana Cristina dos Santos Morais
Beautiful baby
Dear Diary:
It was a summer day and I was pushing my four-month-old son down Madison Avenue in Carnegie Hill in a beautiful English-style stroller that a friend had lent me.
We were stopped at a traffic light waiting to cross the street when a woman came up behind me and peered over my shoulder at my son.
“What a beautiful baby,” she said.
She turned and looked at me.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked.
“A boy,” I announced proudly.
She turned and looked back at my son.
“A truly beautiful baby,” she said. “He has to look just like his father.”
– Sandra Daley
Whistle sorry
Dear Diary:
When the flute seller passes by
like a snake through the grass
with train 2 half way to Borough Hall,
You don’t have time to decide how
you would have used one. Still, you will regret it
don’t spend any money for the rest of the trip
for something so stark and unequivocal –
a whistle that sings only one song,
and always perfect.
–Richard Schiffman
‘Doolittle’
Dear Diary:
In the late 1980s, I was the manager of an upscale bakery in the West Village. It was one of those places where a new manager came every year, and I was there for nine months.
The front of the house was a typical café setup: half a dozen tables, some glass display cases and every conceivable type of coffee and pastry, mostly served to-go.
The back of the house, which was four times the size, was where the real money was made, with wedding cakes often running into the many thousands of dollars.
One positive aspect of the job was that I got a long lunch break every day. After making myself a turkey and brie sandwich on a baguette with sun-dried tomatoes and garlic aioli, I grabbed a bottle of iced tea and a bag of chips and rushed to my nearby apartment.
Once there, I sat and ate while looking out of my second-floor window at the Christopher Street theater and loudly playing the Pixies’ recently released cassette “Doolittle.” Very loud. After listening to both sides of the tape, I returned to the cafe.
One day the owner asked why I was away for so long. I apologized and said I was in a hurry to get out of there.
He told me never to be in a hurry to get out of there. Then he said he wanted me to take my lunch breaks at the cafe so I could keep an eye on things.
I nodded in agreement, but quit a week later without telling him the real reason.
I had to hear the Pixies.
–Doug Sylver
Tiffany Frame
Dear Diary:
I was cleaning out my closets when I came across a small Tiffany box. To my surprise, it looked like it had never been opened. Inside, covered in plastic, was a beautiful sterling silver picture frame, nestled in a Tiffany blue felt bag.
Unfortunately, upon closer inspection I could see that the silver had become tarnished. I tried cleaning it but to no avail.
I called Tiffany and was told to take it in for repairs. So I traveled to Rockefeller Center, took the box to the store and was directed to the repair department downstairs.
I showed the frame to one of the women at the counter there. She called two other women to come take a look.
The three of them admired it, but then said they didn’t sell Tiffany items.
“How could Tiffany not sell Tiffany?” I have asked.
“You’re at Saks Fifth Avenue!” said one of the women.
– Eileen Rosenberg
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee