Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn Bridge Park construction site in foreground
I had mixed feelings about the restaurant grading system when it was first introduced in NYC. I thought of it as a Californian import (with simmering regional hostility) and besides, aren’t there some things you really don’t want to know?
But I’ve come round since then, and am unduly skittish about eating at anywhere posting a ‘Grade Pending’ sign as this usually means they would have gotten a C (or worse? Is there a lower grade?) but are craftily fooling the less suspicious passerby into thinking an A is on the way.
This pairing - or trio rather - (the third sign warns one to keep a close eye on personal possessions while patronizing the bar) made me stop in my tracks. It is so rare to see a C. But I appreciate the honesty.
Still, I’m not going to be rushing in for snacks any time soon…
The ride to Park Slope was not long or short, merely a piece of time in which Bob stood pressed against others as the train rumbled beneath the streets of Manhattan and then beneath the East River. Everyone on the train seemed innocent and dear to him, their eyes unfocused with morning reveries that were theirs alone, perhaps words spoken to them earlier, or words they dreamed of speaking; some read newspapers, some listened through earbuds to their own soundtrack, but most stared silently as Bob did - he was moved by the singularity and mystery of every person he saw.
—Elizabeth Strout, The Burgess Boys