It is a comfort to know that, in the event of a sudden torrent, the can designated for use at Blue Star Cafeteria by people who identify or are identified as women is equipped with a handy drain.
Although it is a restaurant, the Blue Star Cafeteria isn’t a cafeteria. Naturally this is both distressing and a huge relief.
It’s a relief because if it really were a cafeteria — a species of restaurant notable only for its ability to attract a dining clientele despite its open hostility toward food — my gaping maw wouldn’t have gone within a mile of it at lunch today, and I would have become peckish.
But it’s distressing because it harbinges* the brutal murder of yet another perfectly decent word; at the Blue Star, the meaning of “cafeteria” in all its 20th century formica-and-steam-tabled splendor has not only been sacrificed to irony (irony is unconscionable whenever food is involved), but has been made into one of those words that can no longer be relied upon to mean what it means. I can but shove my furrowed brow into white-knuckled hands. What a world. What’s next? Bell-bottom pants?
Nevertheless, to the Blue Star Cafeteria we did hie. It’s owned by the same guy who runs the more decently named 34th St. Cafe, where a serviceable sandwich has on more than one occasion found a warm welcome in the Twisty paunch, and which my sister Tidy always engages to cater events she doesn’t invite me to, so we thought, why the heck not try the new joint.
Here is Maverick, congenial Blue Star host who was unable to contain his exuberance over the comical resemblance of my camera lens to a flaccid reproductive organ that will remain unnamed (I confess I egged him on by wiggling it up and down repeatedly).
Vegetarians avert your eyes, for the next thing you see will be the blue cheese bacon burger consumed without compunction by Stingray.
Then we ate coconut chess pie, which pie I can recommend without reservation.
*No, it’s really a word. Look it up.