Rest in Pancakes, Kenny Shopsin

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I’ve never been to New York City. Jason Kottke over on posted about a small restaurant owner that recently passed and quoted a passage from a 2002 New Yorker profile that makes me sad I never saw the place back then:

One evening, when the place was nearly full, I saw a party of four come in the door; a couple of them may have been wearing neckties, which wouldn’t have been a plus in a restaurant whose waitress used to wear a T-shirt that said “Die Yuppie Scum.” Kenny took a quick glance from the kitchen and said, “No, we’re closed.” After a brief try at appealing the decision, the party left, and the waitress pulled the security gate partway down to discourage other latecomers.
“It’s only eight o’clock,” I said to Kenny.
“They were nothing but strangers,” he said.
“I think those are usually called customers,” I said. “They come here, you give them food, they give you money. It’s known as the restaurant business.”
Kenny shrugged. “Fuck ‘em,” he said.

Sounds like my kind of guy.

Take it easy, friend.