I am re-reading all the books that I have by Daniel Pinkwater and rediscovering why he is my favorite children's author: there is only a very little plot, and a whole lot of eating out.
Even better, the eating out happens mostly in odd, old-fashioned, pleasures-of-urban-decay establishments. The only way that these books could be better would be if the characters were always drinking egg creams instead of root beer. But I guess it's easier to suspend disbelief about multidimensional time travel and sentient earthworms than it would be to believe that you can get an egg cream outside of New York City.
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