Published March, 2010 (to open, double click on larger image after the link)

Tracy Morgan enters Bar Breton, a Flatiron District bistro known best for its haute burger, wearing a walking cast. The rest of his outfit is less than subtle. Besides the moon boot, Morgan sports a gray hoodie, a black do-rag, the dirtiest white sweatpants in the long and storied history of white sweatpants, and a leather bomber jacket with faux-fur collar and cuffs. Even if he weren’t the most famous black man on network TV, he’d draw some attention from this lunch crowd, smugly pleased to be eating comfort food from a Michelin-star chef. Morgan isn’t even at his table before one of these folks, a suit-clad, bespectacled man in his 30s, bellows, “Yo, what happened?” and motions to the leg. The question is not appreciated. “Why don’t you say hello first?” Morgan asks in a more subdued, nearly dread-inducing version of his trademark delivery. It has the desired effect. “I’m sorry,” the guy says. “Hi. How are you doing?” (more…)