Late Breakfast, Not Lunch

Late Breakfast, Not Brunch

Upscale widows and single young women on the move

whose husbands and fathers went before work at 6:30 AM to the Greek diner

the guys called “Dirts” -

the one still across the street that got a B in the latest survey -

for two scrambled all the way and coffee, all for $1.50 and in 4 minutes.

They arrive with aplomb at Le Pain Quotiden at the stroke of 10:12 for pressed coffee, flakey pastries,

a little summer salad with Anjou pear and artesinal goat cheese, a glass of water for $3.50,

two small soft boiled eggs and more organic high fiber whole grain bread that anyone’s gut

could possibly digest in a day or

could possibly consume in one sitting especially with two micropats of included creamery butter
served whenever the waiter feels like it;

they repose, alone,  at the reproduction farm house table that seats 20 comfortably each

surrounded by The Times, The Journal, Architectural Digest, Weekend Arts or Angry Birds

barriers behind which New Yorkers survive

that New Yorkers understand and daren’t breach -

the occasional tourist indulged not encouraged.

Meanwhile a block away, museum street vendors of original art, photography and artifacts

set up and get re-stocked in volume, in untraceable plain brown boxes and in plain sight

from the plain white van with New Jersey plates

driven by a Chinese guy who pulls up,  drops off, takes cash only and

takes off for the guys workin’ midtown

before the ladies break for the member's limited engagement and the tourists arrive.