Breakfast at Players

I'd never even heard of Players. It was founded by the actor Edwin Booth in 1888, to allow actors and members of the upper classes to mingle socially, so that the latter would realize the former weren't a lot of bums.
This succeeded beyond anyone's wildest expectations.
Bao thought breakfast was the best part. But he's not really into history, unless it's the history of steak.
Edwin Booth had a rough life. He was illegitimate. His father was a schizophrenic and an alcoholic. His brother assassainated President Lincoln. His first wife gave him a baby daughter and then died two years later of an "abdominal complaint." His second wife delivered a son that died at birth and went mad.
Yet he created (and funded) Players, which boasts America's finest theatre library and archive.
Then we went to MOMA to see the architectural facelift. Disaster. They should have left it alone. They have ruined Monet's waterlilies.
Then we were refused service at a place called Bistro Le Steak on the East Side. The Manager had never heard of a Service Animal. And Federal law didn't matter. This is New York, said Nicki. The only law that matters here is the law of the city of New York. That was his name. Nicki. He didn't have a surname. None of these people ever do, have you noticed?
So if you're ever in New York, give Bistro Le Steak a miss. There's a nice Irish Pub just down the street.