I forgot to mention that last week I had a late dinner at the much celebrated Frank on 2nd Ave in the East Village. While hipsters may line up around the block to drink wine at the cramped bar or blunder their way to an empty spot around the one large table, they ought to know there is a chance that there will be a rubber band hidden in their lasagna. Furthermore, they shouldn’t expect to have the offending lasagna stricken from the bill. The food is decent, but it is crowded, hot, noisy and the manager is a cock. F that place. It’s not like it is hard to find good Italian in New York. Luckily I did meet one or two pleasant, engaging and entertaining people that night.