Tiny Chloe, marveling at the fact that come Pinkberry, come recession, such storied, vile native eateries as Papaya King manage to endure.
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starring a small fraction of the approximately 1 million dogs in New York City
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1 comment:
Now you’re a good egg and all that, but I have to set you straight on this particular business. The King of Papayas is one of the most sporting chaps on this old rotating globe we’re on. Met him sailing back from Buenos Aires on the Imperial and he had the most scandalous shindigs in his stateroom every night of that trip. Good thing, too, because I heard from Uncle George that the crossing was particularly on the wretched and stormy side of things and most people spent the entire time positively green in the face, clutching the old hot water bottle and eagerly awaiting the sight of Britannia’s golden shores. Whereas I spent my nights in a jitterbug and juniper haze retiring to my berth shortly after dawn to dream of the shapely ankles of Tabitha Horace-Lloyns. Now the King of Papayas was sailing to London because of an unfortunate coup d’état in his Papayaland which I’m sure will all be old hat soon. So once in the Metropole he opened that smashing nightclub in Soho where the girls dance in banana skirts and do the hootchie coochie in doubletime. And I’ve never heard a peep about his club and eatery being vile, so surely you must be mistaken. Right ho! I have a brilliant idea. This noggin’s good for something after all, blast what Aunt Victoria mutters about the dismal future of the peerage and all. I’ll bring you to the King’s nightclub for the old hospitality and all that. How’s a week Wednesday for you? There’s a new revue starting then that promises to be the cat’s pajamas.
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