Cats. With a K. And a Z.

Here I am, sitting in my friend's apartment in Manhattan, when I see Trouble walking up to me. I stretch out a toe and scratch the side of his neck. He accepts the gesture with uncommon enthusiasm for a cat, arching his back with a scarcely audible purr. I've just made a new friend.

My friend Brave (one reason I'll call him that is because he is a young Indian man in America; the other reason I'll keep to myself) offered the explanation that Trouble is 'dog-like'. That's an unusual thing to say about a cat, but it soon becomes clear that Trouble is an unusual cat. He (the cat) is friendly, likes company and is extremely interactive with humans. I'm a dog-lover, and I can vouch for Trouble's dog-likeness.

Truth to tell, Trouble is the first cat I've actively liked. Usually I'll ignore cats, or maybe humor them with minimal attention. But I find myself seeking out Trouble's company. And he seems to like mine.

A little while later we go out to the East Village to sample some live music. I'm impressed by the venues. They are small, unpretentious annexes to bars, with room to seat about 50 people. But the music is excellent and so are the acoustics.

In 2003 Norah Jones played at The Living Room as a member of a band called the The Little Willies. Tonight the stage is occupied by Devin Doherty and his band. They perform against a backdrop of beige walls and ceiling, from which several giant maroon acoustic panels are suspended. I tap my foot to the country-rock music. The music is simple and well-crafted. I can't quite keep up with the lyrics but Devin's voice makes them sound thoughtful. The combination is wonderfully relaxing.

We take a short kebab break and then head to Arlene's Grocery. I have no idea why it's called that. It certainly doesn't look like a grocery store. What it does look like is a straightforward bar with a short staircase leading down into the performance area. Everything here is black. The walls are black. The ceiling is black. The Silver Spiders are on stage, dressed in black. They're a fun bunch. They look too old to still retain credible ambitions of breaking into the big time; but they enjoy their music, and it shows. They are loud, rude and very good to listen to as they serve straight-up guitar-rock.

We're now ready to call it a night, but first I have to eat a sandwich at Katz's deli. I can see the sign outside and I remember it from a Nokia commercial in which Gary Oldman gets a sandwich from Katz. It looked really good on TV and I want to know if it tastes as good as it looked.

I ask for a pastrami sandwich. Allan, the man preparing my order, passes me a slice of pastrami to keep me occupied while he carves away out of my sight under the counter-top. About a minute later he presents me a plate. Between two slices of bread he has placed about three inches of sliced beef. And then he's done it once more. I'm intimidated, but will not surrender without a fight. I brace myself for a titanic struggle between man and meat. As I walk away from the counter I see a jar out of the corner of my eye, labeled 'Tips for Allan'. By this time I've been in the US for a few hours, long enough to have been reminded that to overlook a tipping opportunity is to commit a mortal sin. I slip in a couple of dollars.

Then I sit down and attack the first sandwich with gusto. The first bite is astounding. This sandwich is great. Even better than it looked on TV!

A couple of bites later I've started to slow down. It takes real effort to work my way through the meat. An amused member of the staff encourages me to keep on going, I will win in the end. But I can only manage one sandwich and decide to get the other one bagged to take home.

The bagging is to be done by the aforementioned staff member / eating coach. With great deliberation he wraps my food in a paper towel and slips it into a brown paper bag. Then he holds it to his bosom and announces to me "I've wrapped it with love, like it was one of my own." I fear for his children and the fate that apparently awaits them - to be swaddled in paper for a stranger to take home and eat. I am also sufficiently irritated by this shameless plug for a tip to decide that in this instance I will sin mortally. No tip for the smart aleck. It doesn't require me to be particularly brave. I'll never have the courage to wrestle with the meat here again, so smart-mouth will not have a chance to poison me in revenge.

As we walk to the cashier, Brave points out something that perhaps I should have seen for myself. This is the place where Meg Ryan faked an orgasm in When Harry Met Sally, which just happens to be my all-time favorite movie. Instantly, everything I see around me snaps into place, like a favorite childhood photograph.

The cashier rings up $13.45; I don't even consider leaving a tip...

...It's early in the morning (and still pitch-dark). I'm sprawled across a mattress in the living room of Brave's apartment. Something steps on my legs and walks over to peer at me. It's Trouble, delighted to share this quiet moment with me. I tickle his ear, he nips at my finger and we silently bid each other goodnight and go back to sleep.