Another odd occurrence

Because of all the reading and work for class, I've had little time to carry out my culinary mission of eating at every restaurant in New York. Most, if not all, of the places I've tried so far have all been within a 3-block radius of my dorm (if I'm not mistaken, there must be thousands in that small area alone). Here's a description of one of the more eventful meals I've had:

While perusing one of the local newspapers (I'll read anything as long as it's not my Civil Procedure textbook), I found a listing for a small sandwich shop called BB's. According to the paper, this diminutive restaurant has been a fixture in the collective NYU student diet for many years. So, on Thursday, between classes, I decide to check it out.

Upon entering, I noticed that there was no menu to be seen. I checked the usual spots - the walls, the tables, and near the cash register - but, as far as I could tell, there was no guidance for the uninformed customer. The proprietor called to me from the back of the restaurant before I could figure out what was going on. "One or two?" he said with a glance in my direction.

My response was automatic: "Uh, one, please."

A quick scan of the newspaper and magazine articles decorating the walls confirmed my suspicisions: this place only offers one type of sandwich. There was no menu because there's no need for one.

It was at this juncture that I discovered a noticeable lack of cash money on my person, a condition that can be convenient, and even fortuitous, when you are eating with generous friends but frustrating as hell when you are flying solo. If there ever was a place that wouldn't accept credit cards, this one-trick pony sandwich shack was it. Sheepishly, I inquired about paying with plastic, fully convinced that in seconds I would be turning around and leaving sans sandwich.

To my surprise, he took the ATM card from my hand, uttered something incoherent, and scrawled the total of my meal - $5.85 - on a piece of paper. It was at that very moment when an impish child appeared at my side, like a demon conjured by some dark ritual. My card and the note were handed to the gypsy kid and he exited the door, with what looked like malevolent purpose. Unfortunately, the child, powered as he was by youth, was too fast to follow. So I decided to sit down and let fate decide whether or not my credit card would provide the funds for the sandwich or a Playstation for the kid.

My sandwich came shortly thereafter and I devoured it with speed. While not a cheesesteak in the traditional sense, it did satisfy my desire for thinly sliced steak, melted cheese, and carmelized onion. By the time I finished, the kid was still nowhere to be seen, so I resigned myself to reading the newspaper.

As time passed, paranoia began to show its ugly head. Where was that gypsy? In my mind's eye, I could see him in Toys R Us having the time of his life, sharing a laugh at my misfortune with that damn giraffe. I was, as you might have guessed, worried for no reason. Before I could fully descend into panic, he returned, with my card and a receipt for $5.85.

Just goes to show you, contrary to popular belief, you can trust gypsies after all - even in New York.