In New York, you can get anything delivered. Such, anyway, is the principle I'm operating on. It's the middle of summer, the middle of life. I'm in an otherwise deserted apartment on West Sixteenth Street, listening to the placid hum of the fridge in the next room, and though it contains only a meso
zoic half-stick of butter my hosts left behind when they took off for the shore, in forty minutes I can be eating more or less whatever I can imagine wanting.