“When the history of this sun-baked Siberia is written, these shameful words will live in infamy — ‘No chopped chicken livers!’. No garlic pickles. No Lindy’s. No Madison Square Garden. No Yogi Berra. You know what’s wrong with New Mexico, Mr. Wendell? Too much outdoors. Give me those eight spindly trees in front of Rockefeller Center any day. That’s enough ‘outdoors’ for me. No subways smelling sweet and sour. What do you do for noise around here? No beautiful roar of eight million ants — fighting, cursing, loving. No shows, no South Pacific. No chic little dames across a crowded bar. And worst of all, Herbie — no 80th floor to jump from when you feel like it!”
