Clinton Street, before nine a.m. Onto the block they march, driven by their hive mind. From Brooklyn, from Japan, from Iowa, they gather here, their temple of "in-the-know" New York, which they surely read about in an inflight magazine or Shecky's New York. Has this joint started selling postcards yet?
There are at least three hundred other brunch spots within five blocks but, no, only this one will do. They just have to eat there, so they can say they have. I ate there myself, once or twice, long before the lemmings swarmed in. I had pancakes. They were pancakes...they didn't do backflips, read my palm, ride to my table on the back of a disgruntled badger, or do anything that would warrant waiting in line at all. Particularly with that crowd.
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