There appears to be a conspiracy against him, or at least this is what he thinks, which prevents him from laying his hungry hands on a nice warm masala dosa. You see after trudging through the slush - thankfully the sun was out, and sun has been a rare winter visitors in these northern parts (O! only to return to that perfect winter afternoon spent strolling around Brooklyn's Prospect Park) - for a couple of miles, through this kick-ass prairie wind, which transformed the walk into one of those wind tunnel experiments, he reached this eagerly searched for dosa outpost, only to be informed that they don't do business on Sundays. He can now understand how certain Western settlers might have felt when they got stranded on those high mountain passes in the Rockies and turned to cannibalism.

This fruitless failure lead to a return to the ever popular Bloor Street, and subsequent forays into two restaurants where he will never ever eat for the waitresses/ restaurant folks either became suddenly blind (as in the Jose Saramago's novel "Blindness") or didn't care for his business for no one acknowledged his existence even after ten minutes of standing at the door. Later, demolishing a big fat burger and a heap-o-french fries, and clearly in a more forgiving mood, he thinks, it could also have been the frozen grimace on his face, which might have made him appear fearsome, and scared the waitresses. Such self- comforting was also augmented by a book buying spree (hey! it is not his fault; it is entirely the geography's fault) - all measures taken till he triumphs over the dosa conspiracy against him.