It doesn't take F. Scott Fitzgerald to capture the essence of the lower Second Avenue on a hot and humid weekday afternoon: the sidewalk reeking of garbage, urine, and vomit (the last two courtesy of numerous pubs); the air dense with exhaust fumes from the endless traffic jam of crawling buses, delivery trucks, taxi cabs, rusted vans from Queens, and not yet dented SUVs from New Jersey. And all this enveloped by the hazy mist of lukewarm condensate, sprayed from above by countless air conditioners sticking from soot- and grime-covered windows like long-neglected and constantly oozing pimples. Just the kind of place to have lunch at a sidewalk restaurant.
