When I was a young man first coming into the city to study life drawing, I stopped every morning at the coffee cart on the corner of 39th and Eighth. A buttered roll and a regular cawfee. Fifty cents. In New York, regular means milk and sugar. Nobody had to explain it. These days I make it myself, with a French press, first thing, without saying a word. I do sometimes miss those 50 cent cups a joe. It was so friendly and quick, like we all had someplace to be.
