When I asked what “kasha” is, the woman behind the counter replied with such matter-of-fact dourness—“Buckwheat.”—that I thought it best to order one filled with sweet potato instead. Next door, in from the biting cold, we settled into our seats at the Landmark Sunshine and cupped hot knishes in our hands. Then the dimming lights, and then that singular warm magical coloring—like the secret golden glint of a stealth pistol; like the sunlight coming in from the garden, and dust in the air, and hope in a cotton dress in the doorway—of a Jeunet.



We hightailed it across Houston after, the wind pinching at our cheeks. At ten on a Friday night, Pink Pony is mullets galore. Spiky mullets on skinny girls, and four tables in a row of hip young things looking like they play in the same band; O, we love the Lower East Side. Over the bustle and the comfortable crush, the room sounds like “The Tide is High” and “Just a Gigolo” and “Jean Genie,” now that is a jukebox dollar well spent.