When a waiter approaches Henderson Dores' table in a Manhattan restaurant and begins the "My name is James . . ." routine, Henderson jumps to his feet, pumps hands and introduces his companion. What this shy, attractive, self- critical Englishman wants is to look and feel like an American: "I want your confidence and purpose, I want your teeth and tans." But he cannot help hearing the hell raised by garbage trucks between 4 and 5 in the morning, cannot really swallow the harsher barbarities of New York fad cuisine ("fillet of hake in lager and cranberry sauce . . ....
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