THE most famous 21-year-old on the planet came barreling into a West Village diner one wintry February morning, desperately craving Belgian waffles. He was bleary eyed, scruffy and stubbly but energetic despite the early hour, and slightly winded after rushing from the previous restaurant chosen for him, which was closed because of a gas leak.
Slipping unnoticed into a backup location that presented no imminent threat of explosion, he winkingly acknowledged his morning’s travails — “You were trying to kill me, weren’t you?” he said through a smile — and before tearing into the breakfast that would power him through that day’s rehearsals for his new Broadway musical, offered the following warning:
“You will see me probably drink an obscene amount of maple syrup. I’ve never had maple syrup before about three weeks ago, and now I could freebase it. Pints of it.”
Source: New York Times