Eat Slowly, Suffer Wrath

There isn't a more perfect thing in the world than celebrating Sunday with a breakfast at the Ukranian diner Veselka, especially after a night out on the town. Stroll in with a book and, after a very short wait, grab a spot at the front counter. The riff-raff, meanwhile, has to wait at least a half-hour for a table. Suckers.

Today proved to be more of a task, though. And this was a morning I probably needed it the most, as last night was a shining example of drinking and debauchery to celebrate my brother-in-law-to-be's imminent end to life as he knows it (one can alternately call it "his bachelor party").

Of the (about) 9 spots at the front counter, each was filled with a soul who hadn't a care in the world, apparently. For example, there was a 30-ish gentleman who had finished his food and would take a sip of coffee every few minutes as he perused the business section of the New York Times. Another: There was an older gentleman who would slurp himself some borscht soup, wipe his beard fastidiously, then slowly butter his toast and take a small nibble. Repeat process repeatedly.

And cue to those of us waiting for a spot, the grimacing and hearty lot who lived by an unspoken code, trying our best not to drag these people out of their fancy seat, so that we could take their place. The multiple sets of daggering eyes spoke volumes. Had this had been Prehistoric times...

Truly maddening. Don't people have some small measure of self-awareness, to sometimes look around and notice that there are others waiting to get their Sunday morning fix?

Moral of this story: If you're going to take up valuable real estate, please move quickly, damnit.