METROPOLITAN DIARY 'I Only Drink My Coffee Black, and I Cannot Drink It With Sugar'
'A morning routine, a Katharine Gibbs student goes to a show and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.
Morning Coffee
Dear Diary:
Every morning I get coffee from one of the many coffee carts on the New York City streets.
I only drink my coffee black, and I cannot drink it with sugar. I am careful when ordering to slowly say I would like a small black coffee with no sugar. Sometimes this works, and sometimes my coffee has the unwanted addition of sugar.
One morning, I was under terrible stress. When I got to the cart, I carefully placed my order as usual.
“I would like one small black sugar with no coffee,” I said.
— Roderick Denault LOLOLOL!
Seeing ‘Pippin’
Dear Diary:
In 1975, I was a student at the Katharine Gibbs School at what was known then as the Pan Am Building. One Wednesday we got the afternoon off to see a Broadway show. My friends and I decided to see “Pippin” at the Imperial Theater.
It was a cold, wet February day, and we lined up at the box office. There were five of us, all 18 years old and from either the Bronx or New Jersey. We were wearing what the Gibbs school considered appropriate business attire: dresses, long winter coats, pantyhose and low heels.
We were happy to have the afternoon off. We laughed and counted our money as we waited, making sure we had enough for cheap seats at the top and to go to McAnn’s afterward.
We began talking to an older man and woman in front of us. We learned that she had attended Katie Gibbs in the 1950s. We talked about changes at the school (electric typewriters) and about the dress code (no more white gloves).
The line continued to move and we eventually said goodbye to the couple. I was in charge of buying the tickets, so when we got to the box office I did the ordering.
“We’d like five tickets for the rear mezzanine,” I said.
“Here are your tickets,” the box office attendant said.
I must have looked confused.
“Take them,” she said.
I took the tickets. I didn’t know a lot about the theater, but I knew that “FM” meant front mezzanine.
“We don’t have enough money for these,” I said.
“You don’t need to,” the woman said.
“Huh?” I mumbled.
The woman smiled.
“The guy in front of you paid for your tickets,” she said. “You’re the Gibbs girls, right?”
— Mary Hayes
Packed In
Dear Diary:
The M.T.A. is governed by one law of physics: You’re never as crammed in as you think you are.
One morning, the downtown No. 3 I was on arrived at 72nd Street, and four people made their way out of my packed car. Ten more got on.
Without a handrail or pole to grab onto, I stayed upright by being pressed up against my fellow commuters.
The train began moving, and we whirred past 66th, 59th and 50th Streets. Pulling into the 42nd Street Station, the intercom crackled to life.
“Gooooood morning, ladies and gentleman,” the train operator said. “Welcome to Times Square, or as we like to call it, the heartbeat of New York City. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, perhaps with a transfer to the 1, 2, 7, A, C, E, N, Q, R, or W.”
The chest of every person near me seemed to swell with laughter. We must not have been as crammed in as we thought.
— Kristi Boyce
‘You’ll Be Back’
Dear Diary:
My sister and I spent several days in New York for the holidays. On our last night in town, we decided to go back to the Turkish restaurant we had eaten at the night before. We had another excellent meal, and were served by the same waiter.
As we got ready to leave, my sister told the waiter how much we had enjoyed our meals there. She added that this would be our last visit because we were leaving the city the next day.
“You’ll be back,” he said.
My sister laughed and said that was unlikely because she lived in Florida.
The waiter shook his head.
“You’ll be back,” he insisted.
We had walked about five blocks when I realized that I had forgotten my credit card. We retraced our steps to the restaurant. When we walked in, the waiter crossed the room and handed the card to my sister.
“I told you you’d be back,” he said.
— Penny Kurtz
At the Dentist
Dear Diary:
I went to the dentist with what I thought was bad news.
“I’m moving to San Francisco,” I said as I plopped down into the leather dental chair. Although I had only been seeing him for two years, I felt lucky to have found a dentist who was skilled, conveniently located and someone I trusted.
“Not a problem,” he said. “Just book an appointment whenever you’re back in the city. I have several patients who do it.”
So for the next three years I did just that. When friends asked why I was visiting New York, I would say that I was seeing my dentist. And it wasn’t a joke.
In January, having moved back to New York permanently, I eagerly scheduled a cleaning with plans to share the news of my return.
“I’ve moved back to the city!” I said with a grin when I arrived.
“Oh,” the dentist said, “have you been living somewhere else?”
— Stewart Bean'
https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/01/nyregion/metropolitan-diary.html
= new reply since forum marked as read
I always enjoy Metropolitan Diary. This time, it was the Gibbs Girls story that is my favorite, although the dentist one is a close second.
I once wrote an entry for Metropolitan Diary, but it was never printed. 
It was about a group of boys playing basketball in a suburban community in NJ. It was on Halloween and they were all dressed as "death," and their scythes leaning up against the basketball court's fence while the boys bounced the basketball around the court.
I entitled it "Death Takes a Holiday."
The NY Times has printed a number of my letters to the editor and even an op-ed piece, however, so I'm not miffed. 
