Maybe we’ll hit the Automat next.

Only a few years ago, I was a human Zagat guide–a walking, talking compendium of everywhere in NYC that you wanted to be.

I knew where to see, where to be seen, where to be seen seeing those who want to be seen. I could point you towards strip clubs and Irish pubs and the one place in Manhattan with a mechanical bull. I could suggest the perfect place to take your drunken bachelorette party or your sober Salt Lake City parents. I even knew a little jewel of a sake bar, so exclusive, you had to enter through another restaurant entirely and head up a back stairwell just to find it.

But as we know, childbirth changes more than your bra size.

Yesterday my delusions of hipness crashed and burned as I enthusiastically recommended a favorite restaurant—that closed three years ago.

I further hear it’s been a good five years since the bridge and tunnel contingent wrested the restaurant away from hipster locals in a full-scale coup after a Friday night performance of Mamma Mia.

I am woman, hear me wimper.

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