.09.

Times Square, New York.

7th and Broadway. Tin Pan Alley. The Actor's Chapel. Duffy Square. TKTS. The Palace. Restaurant Row. Schubert Alley. The New Vic. Ochs Street. Rodger's & Hammerstein Row. The Imperial.

Crossroads of the World.

It unfolds before you like a real-time Hollywood Blockbuster. The lights. The sounds. The swearing. The buildings. The history. The street peddlers and merchants. The curbside artists. New York's Finest.

In no other city in America can you stand and feel... this.

And there we were. Two lonely young blokes standing outside the Olive Garden taking everything in and praying to the gods of cruel irony that some true Brit wouldn't decide to ask us for the time or some other such nonsense for the next hour and a half.

We petitioned long and hard. Adam produced a small stick of tobacco which he used as a burnt offering, testing the flavors and aromas himself so as not to upset the gods.

The ladies arrived, upset already since we did not procure a table ahead of time. How were we to know the rules of American dining etiquette?

We entered the Olive Garden through a revolving door and ascended two escalators before finally reaching a hostess and waiting section. While we waited we were introduced to, and chatted it up with, Sherri, the elder and married friend.

Before you could say "Bangers and Mash," we were seated. We all ordered, mainly salads and breadsticks with waters, with a few colas here and there, and several appetizers.

The conversation lulled into a dreary silence, which I chose to fill by fiddling around with napkins and such, until I realized that made me look quite nervous. I quickly claimed to be rather tired from the night before and that successfully set off a bit of conversation.

When the drinks came 'round, Shatarsky was quite taken with his Diet Coke, as it had a wedge of lemon in it. This set him off on a bit of a monologue, which killed an excellent slice of time, about how American's put lemons in and around everything in restaurants. It was lovely. I joined in about halfway through and we tag-teamed it like pros.

Then came something only Shatarsky would do. The lemon bit had just died a wonderful death, as all jokes must, with the last few faint chuckles still lingering around the back alleyways of the mind. And then, right in that moment when you draw that silent breath to close the door on one story or idea or thought or event and move on to the next, he spoke. In perfect seriousness.

"And Ice." He began to look at the ice in his glass as though it were mystical, examining it carefully with his straw. "Only in America do they put ice in your drinks. I've never seen anything like this."

The table froze. There wasn't a breath, a laugh, a snicker, a scoff. Nothing.

I froze.

There is one rule in Improv: Do not block. What this essentially means is, if someone says to you, "Hey, did you hear that Uncle Louie is comin'?" You don't say, "No, he's dead." Kinda kills the flow. Leaves you nowhere to go.

But what am I supposed to do with, "You can't get ice in your drink anywhere outside America"?

As I was approaching a suitable solution to this dilemma, Adam broke my concentration by setting down his drink with a hard thud, leaning back in the booth, and saying, "No. That's all nonsense. You can get ice anywhere."

The ladies laughed. I looked at him and smiled. It was one of my patented smiles. The one that says, You're a very, very funny man... don't ever do that to me again.

I think he got the message. But just to be sure I immediately began planning a way to get him back. Thankfully, my opportunity arose much sooner than I thought.