So Hepcat and I decided to go see Ironman. I mean who can resist a smart, political superhero movie with Robert Downey, Jr. Jeff Bridges bald with a goatee, and Gwyneth.

So I booked tickets on line for the 9:10 show at the Pavilion. Leaving the apartment we hoped to find something quick to eat.

"Let’s see what’s above 9th Street," I said when Hepcat suggested good, old reliable Mr. Falafel on Seventh Avenue near Third.

We shoulda had a falafel.

Everywhere we went above 9th Street was packed. 20-minute wait at Little Dishes, 20 minutes or more at Anthony’s. That German place on the corner of 14th and 7th Avenue looked packed.

Finally we went to Johnny Mack’s on 8th Avenue and 12th Street but there was only one tiny table surrounded by crowded tables. We decided not to squeeze in. Instead, we sat happily at the bar and ordered for me: a veggie burger; for he: chicken and pecan salad.

I had wine, he had beer.

I noticed for the first time the mural on the back wall of the bar of 4 brownstones on 11th Street. It’s very attractive. It’s been there a year-and-a-half it turns out but I’ve never spent any time in the bar, we usually sit in the back.

The food was perfect and we were out of there at 9:05. Sadly when I tried to pay for my ticket with a credit card the woman at the Pavilion told me there were no tickets under my name.

"You did it again," Hepcat said. "You didn’t actually buy the tickets online." This had happened one time before. Ooops.

Dang.

Both of us were dying to see Iron Man but we didn’t get all crazy about our aborted movie night. Instead, we walked home past Dizzy’s, picked up some dessert to take home, and watched a show called Numbers on television.