Mediocre Places I Love to Love, Part I

Ode to Kashmir, located at 40th and 8th, Manhattan.


No whispered secret accolades,
No cheering skyward pumping fist,
No teeming lines or pushy hordes,
No blurb from Chowhound or Gothamist,

But Kashmir, you call to me
From my lunchtime Rolodex.
I crave your soupy lunch buffet
despite its obvious Diahhrea Hex.

Prince Charming waiting 20 years
To save his sleeping beauty;
And after lunch, my love, I'll suffer
gladly 20 years of doody.

Your spices are uneven.
Your ingredients are canned.
Your staff comprises the whole front line
of Sargent Hygiene's Germtime Band.

And yet when (at 10:15)
We're sifting through the menus,
I plead "C'mon guys, it's like six bucks!
You can't beat that now can you???"

Kashmir, you are nasty.
I know it, so so hard.
But every bite just feels like home--
and a little bit like Ebola/SARS.