A couple of nights ago, I ended up at Les Halles, the French steakhouse on lower Park, and I had a pretty good time. The hanger steak was as sanguine as it had to be, without the rank, livery flavor I sometimes associate with the cut. The duck confit salad--my lord, what a salad!--was the sort of thing you inhale so quickly that you barely remember eating it, apart from fleeting visions of salt, crunch, bittersweet endive and a massive heap of tiny, cubed potatoes sauteed into supernal, greasy crispness, in what I assume was about a quart of duck fat. But the restaurant was out of blood sausage. The only dish I ever order there. The reason I jump into a cab, scoot across town and wait 40 minutes in a crowded, pashamina-infected bar where the cigarette smoke is as thick as butter on bread. Les Halles running out of blood sausage is like Donovan's running out of cheeseburgers, like Nathan's running out of hot dogs, like Le Bernardin running out of fish. And although I liked my bloodless meal, I couldn't help thinking the entire time that I should have cut and run when the waiter came out of the kitchen with the bad news. What would you have done?