Adventures in Babysitting

Shazz rolled into town last night.

We spent an hour wandering up and down Broadway and Amsterdam, looking for a place to eat. He nixed French, as apparently he can get it in Istanbul, and I suggested Italian. I took him to my local favourite, but he thought it was too chi-chi, what with the $10 pasta dishes and twinkly lights. He wanted, he explained, a down-home, checkered table-cloth kind of joint, where he could order Chicken Parm. We passed a place with the requisite checkered table-cloths only to find, on inspection, that it did not, in fact, serve Chicken Parm, and was more expensive than the place I suggested.

Ok, I thought, and pointed out the local pizza dive.
"Too dive-y," came the pronouncement.

Then we spent half-an-hour searching for a Greek place on Broadway that doesn't actually exist.

Finally, his little legs tukered out, my babysitting charge conceded to eat at the diner.

I don't get paid enough.