Chin isn’t on roller skates and there are place mats on the tables, albeit paper Chinese calendar ones. While getting ready with Kitsy somewhat enthused me for the dance, arriving at Chin’s for a pre-dance meal reminds me just how far out of my area code I am. Back in New York in the 212, we’d pick the most expensive restaurant that might not card and enjoy parent-sponsored vodka sodas and lobsters. Now in the 806, I am about to eat at a place with an orange neon sign whose H doesn’t even light up: Here’s to a night at C IN’S.Stepping inside, Bubby holds the door for me.“C’mon in, Manhattan,” he says. “I know it isn’t the Palace Hotel, but I’ve got to tell you the egg rolls are amazing. And I hold the record for the number per sitting: fourteen.”“Yeah, thanks a lot for that, dude,” Hands says. “That’s part of the reason the football team is now banned from the lunch buffet. You were literally eating the Chins’s profits.”Arriving at a four-person table in the back, Kitsy puts her hand over the seat next to her.“Corrinne,”
