What the hell, I'll try the Russian pancakes with caviar. I order the cheap red stuff, not the black, and a mug of beer. Everyone at the tables next to me are drinking beer or shots of vodka or whisky. And it's such a pleasure to have a beer outside on a warm day, facing the ocean while everyone you know is working. The food comes.
Russian pancakes turn out to be perfectly done French crepes.
I see a couple of old people with the same mysterious beak-bandage walk in front of me. It must be a geriatric Russian thing. Sitting here, with a slow buzz softening the edges, I could be at a resort on the Baltic Sea. Manhattan is absent. The cafes cater to a distinctly Russian crowd.