I feel the need to admit something to you, my reader. I eat too many burritos. It's not that I am not open to other types of food, it is just that when lunchtime comes around, the idea of a warm assortment of rice, beans, veggies and chicken encased in an inviting tortilla covered with salsa and sour cream trumps damn near everything else. Plus my local burrito supplier has sunny outdoor seating—which for those of you unfamiliar with midtown, light is a highly valued commodity—so on warm spring days like this it is hard not to go anywhere else.

The main waiter-guy has decided not to give me a menu any more. I walk up, he asks if I want the usual with water, and that just happens to be exactly what I want. The entire pre-eating ritual menu-stare is done away with, in its place is a cup of salsa and some chips for me to chow down on. All of which makes me very happy, yet vaguely disturbed that I have befriended yet another mexican joint. This is a trend with me. At the last place, not only did they knew how to make my burrito, but I knew the owner enough to banter with him about the business.

I'm just happy that the people at Bergen Bagels haven't sorted out what I want by now. Phew.