Next day we had a full tourist day - this was the
fourth or fifth time Bonnie has been to New York City
in some seventy years, despite having been born and
brought up in Henrietta and Elmira. I noted that there
was a lot to see in the town, so we figured one museum
and one main meal a day, plus a lot of walking.

She wanted to see the 9-11 memorial, which left me
completely cold but that she found emotionally draining.
A couple years after the attack, some guy did the Tribute
in Light, which I found a perfect commemoration;
proposals to make it permanent were nixed in favor of
the current water sculptures. Apparently it's revived
the night of every September 11, but only once have I
been in the New York airspace to see it. Anyhow, as
far as I'm concerned the current installation is just
like any old park, only more expensive to maintain.

Walking to our museum we went past several halal food
carts, and after my mouth was about to burst from
watering, I halted us at Rafiqi's, which was the
second-best-smelling one we encountered (we weren't
hungry enough passing the most fragrant, plus there
was a line). We split a lamb plate, maybe 6 oz of
pretty good gyro meat and a pile of excellent rice.
A couple slices of onion and tomato and a few leaves
of green, and we were all set with an ample and very
tasty lunch for two. A yogurt drizzle was yogurty and
the hot sauce was HOT. List price was $6, but we refused
bread and a full salad and got a buck off, which went
into the tip jar. As we were sitting around by the
nearby park munching our food, one of those eccentric
old people you see in cities asked if she could sit with
us, and we said okay. I was thankful for having an extra
spoon in my pocket, figuring the next move would be to
ask to share our lunch. No, it turns out, she was fixed
okay and just wanted to talk about her boyfriend (I
forget how old she said he was, 88 or something) and
their travels together. As we chatted, people came up to
her and greeted her; apparently she's a local institution
in herself, rather than the inmate of one as I had feared.
We had a little difficulty extricating ourselves but
eventually successfully pled time's a wasting and walked
east to discover our bus had left early with the next not
arriving for 15, plus it was getting hot. I proposed to
take a pit stop at a bar within sight of the bus, but as
we were deciding to do that, the bus came up. Wrong bus.
Rinse and repeat about five times until the real bus came.

The Whitney Museum now has a favorable location (it's
moved a number of times from one expensive address to the
next, with the area it moves to always enjoying a social
uptick. It's now at the south end of the High Line, so our
day was determined pretty much already. It houses a
compendious collection of American art mostly from the
20th century, with Hoppers, O'Keeffes, Lawrences, Calders,
oh my, enough to keep the most cursory museumgoer going for
a couple hours. We spent a couple hours then decided to go
up the High Line at least as far as Chelsea Market (we
actually went past it a bit and then backtracked when we
felt thirsty).

Chelsea Market is a bit chichified since I was last there,
and funky individualism has given way to would-be-funky
corporatishness, and the vibe turned us off rather. So we
decided to walk down to McKenna's, where we heard there was
a great happy hour. Surprise - there was a bouncer, who let
us in with the caveat that it would be hard to get a seat,
despite it being right at the beginning of happy hour. He
was wrong - there wasn't a seat to be had, so on the way
out we reported that to him and asked for a recommendation,
which came right away - Grace's, next door, which was nearly
empty, maybe three or four people sitting at the bar. Friendly
bartenders from Ireland, lots of imported goodies on tap, and
no food. Bonnie asked if there might be peanuts or chips,
whereupon the bartender admitted that an order of their famous
crisps could be made up, but it was too big of an order for
the two of us (sniggers from the two regulars up the bar from
us). We said we'd share with those guys. And after the first
round (red rotgut, such as Lilli would order, for her, a draft
Guinness for me) the crisps came - a basket with almost a pound
of fresh-fried potato chips dusted with Parmesan and pepper.
They were very good, and true to our word, we sent them up and
down the bar. There was some out-of-place-looking Hispanic guy
down the other end who seemed surprised when I offered him
some, but he accepted gratefully - the chips were salty, and
it was hot out. A couple more rounds, and the kitchen was about
to open up, but we asked the bartender for the best seafood
within walking distance. That advice was cheerfully given, and
it wasn't for us to stay and wait for the kitchen, so we didn't.
The bill: beers around $6, wine around $8, the chips $10.

And we found ourselves a few blocks up at Sea More's, which was
hopping and didn't have any tables, but there were two spaces at
the bar, where we had a really good Pinot Grigio at a really
high price with an order of crispy calamari and the scallop
crudo. The calamari were fresh fresh, nicely fried, in a hardish
but flaky batter, a good-size portion. There's a reason why it's
not "scallops crudo" - what came, for a buck or two more than the
squid, was one (1) large scallop, two mediums a remote possibility,
cut in 6 paper-thin sheetlets, so roundabout an ounce of shellfish
for $15. The accompaniments, the best greens around, and I forget
what else, might have added 20c to the cost of the dish. So that
was some $200/lb for admittedly a decent couple scallops. Feeling
guilty for having me pay $10 for a basket of potato chips that I
ate about 2 of, took this tab. I had mercy on her and didn't
order another scallop crudo,
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