The table all the way to the back and to the left in Great N.Y. Noodletown is the best one in the house, ’cause, if you and Tom sit on the same side, backs to the wall, Mafia-style, over your meal you get to watch all the action in the room—the butcher dude with his cleaver and his collection of roasted duck and pork in the window; the waiters maneuvering in tight spaces with plates and plates of steaming, glistening what-nots—while also being as far away as possible from the door and the biting wind that rushes in at every chance. Plus, the seats face the clock, which tells you, when you’re done with the duck porridge and the mixed seafood in a taro bird’s nest, and when the sliced oranges and moist towelettes arrive, that it’s time to motor and head over to the Knitting Factory for some tunes.

The boy was right, you really can’t see anything at the Knitting Factory. Maybe things would be different if we weren’t hobbit-sized. Still, it’s nice to sit in the dark with a pal and listen to the absolute loveliness of Rilo Kiley.