In prime seating territory, a duo of stylish middle-aged women wore nearly identical Breton-style striped shirts. A younger twosome asked for a pair of the restaurant’s signature baseball caps with their check. A leashed dog lifted its enormous, boxy head as its owner was presented with an aromatic hamburger and a bouquet of golden French fries, wrapped in crisp butcher paper in a metal cup. (When the fries temporarily disappeared from the menu, in late summer, the Web site Artnet News described “a salty spud stick drought that has sent Tribeca’s artists, writers, and dealers into a full-on tailspin, the world they once inhabited ripped to shreds.”) A group of thirtysomethings celebrating a birthday plucked a bunch of eerily fresh-looking calla lilies out of a public trash can. The attached note, on customized stationery, read: “Dear NUGGLETON, I’ve missed you sooo much! That nis [sic] why I gotteded [sic] you these flowers. PLEASE TELL ME ALL ABOUT YOUR TRIP. Love, Trip.” New York lives. (Dishes $12-$38.) ♦