Did you see they updated the Eater 38? I’ve been to 36 and I love Charlie Bird, don’t you? I used to worry about missing an opening but since I got back from Malaysia… Earlier in the afternoon I’d read Thirty Acres made the cut and I was happy for them but not click-thru curious, so I added my two cents but what was I going to say? I’ve never even been to Roberta’s and she’s already eying me with suspicion when she looks up at all, gives me that post-Instagram go-ahead nod of permission to dip the lobster roll (not that kind, the other kind) in the cheese sauce, tell her how it is because that’s how she consumes food. And it shows. She has those Conde Nast legs sheathed beneath black tights, the kind that cross themselves twice at the thigh and ankle, a double-helix celebration of her superior DNA. And she celebrated that too when I asked about her family because it was the polite thing to do even if the date was over the minute she walked in the door, right by me without a courtesy and straight to Ed. …Nothing as interesting as yours. We came off the Mayflower… a prime minister of Iraq, the kingdom… but I don’t want to talk about that. Then she looked off again. Played with her pearls. Not because she was flirting or fidgeting but because playing with pearls — communion, graduation, Tuesday — that was in her DNA too. I can take a hint but ordered chocolate pudding anyway while she signaled to have the Dungeness noodles wrapped. 71 minutes: That’s how long it takes to clear eight plates when you’re eating through a lens. No thank you, I don’t eat leftovers, but I figured you’d want them.