We should open a restaurant. We should! We really should. We should, and it should be a cat cafe for people who just want to watch sweetly slow Norwegian television in hammock-rocking peace. No, no – wait: we should open a restaurant that just serves avocado and blueberry sandwiches and nothing but, though – well – what sort of bread would keep the blueberries in and free from spitting their way all spit-take-like all over the place? (You know – a lawn sprinkler of fruit.)
We should open a restaurant that’s nothing but Rome deep in the throes of a deep summer’s night, the kind of night that holds the same sort of strategic value that Grecian roofs once held for their inhabitants. We should build more pop-up restaurants to accompany the now-accepted ‘new’ norm of farmers markets that dot cityscapes, an aspirational and ramshackle Au Pied Du Cochon for today’s Les Halles. We should start a restaurant in the middle of another restaurant as a lone matryoshka doll solemnly breaks into a beady little sweat trying to roll its way in from the outside. We should open a restaurant so we can wander down to an abandoned but otherwise entirely healthy boat and sit for a bit of a 'boat picnic.’ We should open up a restaurant called 'Boat Picnic.’ Also: 'Boat Panic.’ And, in relation to that, we should also open up a restaurant called, “Look Out! Picnic!” (But, well, what does that mean? A nuclear American Rockwell family emerging charging towards you as you stop off by the woods in Northern Massachusetts, the Leith Walkway in Edinburgh, or the riverbound greenery of a Hudson Valley hill with the red-checkered cloth unfurled and flapping like a William Wallace cape behind them?)
We should open a restaurant so you can never go hungry in any sense of the word ever again. Ever! Ever, ever, ever.