On Friday I had dinner at NYC’s molecular gastronomie center, WD-50. We ordered the tasting menu. An incomplete list of what we had:

• Foie gras, extruded into a squared-off tube, and tied, somehow, in a knot
• Deconstructed French onion soup
• Deconstructed eggs Benedict (the egg yolk sous vide, the hollandaise sauce separated, breaded, and deep-fried)
• “Pizza pebbles”

I was disappointed that “pretzel consomme” and “popcorn soup” were only available a la carte.

Honest Bob show at TT’s tonight:

On the subway platform, heading home, a drunk man approached me and mumbled a long stream of Spanish. I shrugged and said in English, “I don’t understand.”

He mumbled more Spanish. I put up my hands, as if to say, “Hey, what can you do, I’m American, I only speak American.”

He gestured forcifully at the train tunnel and then said, as if suddenly realizing, “No sabes.”

Automatically I agreed, “No sé.”

Then I thought, shit, now he’s going to talk to me. But he only nodded, and started walking away down the platform muttering, “No sabes, no sabes.”