Park is deserted. The staff is still setting up tables, and it smells like mopped floors. The hostess is polite and smiles at Roan and gives us a look like we're the kind of hopeless people who show up to parties 2 hours early. The whole thing feels wrong, and I realize I've never been in a New York restaurant without other diners. How will we ever chose our seats?
We've brought a highchair for Roan that we clamp to the table. He seems to pick up on how surreal the situation is. He thinks he's on a roller coaster:
As we wait for the check, more diners finally arrive: a dangerously pregnant woman with her husband and young son. They chose seats that are far away from us. No one else comes.
Next time we go to brunch, we will bring the neighbors.