Real estate makes strange bedfellows. I rediscovered this quintessential New York fact one Friday afternoon when I decamped the No. 2 train at 110th Street, as Christo's orange curtains were flapping alarmingly in a high wind, tangling themselves on their stanchions, causing uniformed munchkins to run around using tennis balls on long poles to dislodge them. I'd gone on one of my periodic checks of Frederick Douglass Boulevard, onto which the city's premier African strip has begun to spill, after turning the corner on 116th Street. There was a new Senegalese bank, a store selling products from Guinea called, logically enough, Guinean Store, and Salimata, a halal café of indeterminate nationality. In the center of the action was Florence's Restaurant. The pulled-tight lace curtains signaled an African eatery, even without "African American Food" stenciled on... More >>>