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New York, Reprise

April 1, 2013

A reprise in music is a return to a previous part, and so it is with this story. All visits must end, and I must go back to ordinary living, as my mother-in-law would say. New York is grand, but already beginning to lose some of its fascination. The temperature continues to drop, and snow is predicted. The cold North Wind pierces through my blue trench coat, and I pull my scarf tighter around my neck.

“We’ll head toward the park,” offers Beth. “I noticed a cute little restaurant and it gets a good rating on my I-pad.”

Cars and cabs are honking their horns like disturbed geese. “Try the brakes,” mutters John to no one in particular.

Sara Beth’s is a cute out-of-place Vermont pancake palace across from Central Park. Odors of buttermilk pancakes, maple syrup, and coffee drift into the street as we open the glass door and step into a small vestibule. We are greeted by a smiling waiter and led to a table in a distant room. The rooms are clean, airy, and white, surrounding an atrium. A glass enclosed arboretum contains myriads of perfect red poinsettias mixed into cascading green and white ivy. White clad tables with white cloth napkins dot the black and white checkered floors.

I order the puffy French toast, a self-declared speciality. How can you puff bread? You can’t, not even Challah bread, so don’t order it. The coffee is strong and rich. I dine on ambiance and the company, who seem to have an abundance of cheerful optimism and energy.

Stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, I waddle back to the hotel to resume packing. The inaugural parade is on TV.

to be contd.

 

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