But it occurred to Ritchie that all the talk was on Grelich, and none of it was on him.

“Hey, fellows,” he said, “it looks like this talk could go on for a while, and I haven’t even been introduced.”

Grelich sullenly made the introductions.

“Why don’t we get a bite to eat?” Ritchie said, now that he found himself able to speak. “I could use something, myself.”

“Is there a vegetarian restaurant around here?” Grelich asked.

“Christ, I don’t know,” Ritchie said. “There’s a pretty good Cuban café just a couple blocks from here.”

“I wouldn’t eat that treif junk,” Grelich said. “Not even if I weren’t a vegetarian.”

“So recommend your own place, big mouth,” said Ritchie.

“Gentlemen,” said Solomon, “we will take a taxi, which I will pay for, and we will go to Ratstein’s on the Lower East Side.”

The taxi dropped them on the corner of 2nd Avenue and Fourth Street. A corner place, Ratstein’s was open. Inside it was big—it must have had over a hundred tables, all empty except for two men at a front table, arguing over coffee and blintzes.

“We’ll sit in the back, at the Philosopher’s Table,” Solomon said, and led them to an oval table with chairs for eight.

“Schlepstein from NYU often shows up here,” Solomon said. “And sometimes Hans Werthke from Columbia.”

Ritchie had never heard of these men. And he didn’t much like vegetarian food. He settled for a plate of egg cookies and a celery tonic. Grelich ordered strawberry blintzes, Esther took rice pudding, and Solomon ordered the rice and vegetables dish.

Their waiter was a short, plump, middle-aged man with a fringe of pale thinning hair and a vaguely European look. He moved slowly on what appeared to be painful feet.

“I’ll need this table by 7 pm,” he said. “It’s reserved.”