|8 x 5 x .1 cm|
I celebrated my 30th birthday with a group of friends at Yankee Stadium. After the game, we all reconvened at Old Town Bar on 18th street. My friend Duke gave Adrianna and I a ride, an always terrifying experience, though somehow mitigated by the Edith Piaf blasting from the last functioning speaker in his 1992 Saab.
We arrived at the bar, somehow, in one piece. Duke escorted me to the bar and requested two shots of Worcestire sauce. The barman looked puzzled, but obliged. Duke handed me one, raised his in anticipation. As our glasses clinked, this is what Duke said:
"Happy birthday. Sorry, but this is as close to Peter Luger's as I could come."