You can spend a lot of time inventing back stories for the tables around you. But what do they think when they glance back at the big man with too much hair?
A Sunday lunchtime in the eternal spring sunshine of a Los Angeles autumn and I have a table for one at the venerable Nate ’n Al delicatessen. It’s a reminder that the film industry was founded by Ashkenazi Jews from the east coast who craved a taste of home: of pastrami on rye and matzo ball soup, food for colder weather and darker skies but to hell with that. If this is what these film people want to to eat, this is what they’ll have. After all, they write the script.
And here it is 70 years on, doing the same thing it has always done. I am at Nate ’n Al for the smoked salmon and the “everything” bagel, but for something else too: the people-watching. The pleasures of eating alone are obvious. You get to eat what you want, how you want. It is one of adulthood’s great indulgences. But who admits to its other profound pleasure, the licence it gives you to spy on people?
Related: Who wants to share their plate? Definitely not me
Continue reading...