Eating alone in Barouche’s I’m waiting for my change to arrive. Head tilted, eyes rolled upward toward the ceiling, contemplating, brain deep in thought. I did not notice the restaurant manager’s approach. I lower my gaze to discover her presence and concerned look. “Are you alright?”, she asks seriously. Maybe she figured she was witness to a seizure or fit. Reflecting now, I guess I must have looked the part… I was studying the architecture. Honest. I know it’s derigueor but the ceilings are bare-ass frame trusses, air-conditioning ducting and electrical conduit. The corrugated sheet metal roof — stock galvanization. Odd that interior designers (and bean counters) spend large sums on tile flooring, and sponge painted wall surfaces adorned with antiques or theme knickknacks and then halt. Not one dime for the ceiling. Not even a dark coat of paint. Hey! I should be staring at the young waitresses instead?