Walking through SoHo and seeing row upon row of restaurants, smushed together in hastily made squares;
Everywhere else, a restaurant represents an escape, albeit sometimes a small one. You go to get out of something and get in something else, something separate from you, and where you go doesn't belong to you, but you have your way of the place, like you were in a friends house or patio. Its cleaner than you keep it, everything is set up they way you want. Its not yours, but what is, anyway?
In New York, a restaurant, a coffee shop, they don't feel like someone else's house. You sit and cuddle around paradise for warmth with strangers, all in safe possession of secrets but welcoming, claiming ownership of your seat and your small slice of heaven, where you are loved and everything around you is perfectly arranged imperfectly.
In New York, a restaurant doesn't feel like someone else's house. They feel like home.