For fifteen years you’ve watched people eat. Looking down with marble eyes on hungover party-goers scarfing sausage and drooling toddlers mashing scrambled eggs down their shirts. It has been fifteen years since you were first placed on your lookout. Fifteen years of listening to Ken tell your story–the restaurant’s story–to every new customer. Fifteen years of being a symbol. Fifteen years of hearing glasses crash to the floor and fifteen years of eavesdropping on who fucked who from the night before. Fifteen years of having people like me look up at you and imagine riding on your back like a stallion, tearing through the streets, always finding a parking spot and never having to worry about locking the doors.