Because yesterday, I went on the Algonquin Round Table Walking Tour with the Dorothy Parker Society's tireless and terrifically well-informed Kevin Fitzpatrick (and a dozen or so extremely pleasant walking companions). We walked, we barely escaped an especially greasy-smoky street fair; we saw the places where magazines were made, follies were performed, and livers were shot. We talked, we didn't get rained on, and, thoroughly ravenous, we went back to the hotel for a late lunch at the round table, yes, the round table, and most of us had very small hamburgers (three), named after Dorothy Parker and served with very small bottles of ketchup. I reprised my coconut martini from the night I haven't written about yet, in which I dined alone and met a French movie star who was not doing a very good job remaining incognito. I petted Matilda, the hotel cat, who has an entitled yet gracious air. It was a good day. I'll write about it in more detail in the next few days. I might as well throw in that other Algonquin post too, since it features a review of their steak sandwich (preview: yum). Did I mention I hobnobbed with un homme francais fameuse? I mean fameus? Oui, I did. The coconut martinis were helpful in that enterprise. They have a pineapple wedge.