The Gnome loves Manhattan for many reasons, one of which is the 24 hour culture. Although he cannot remember a time when he's actually done so, the ability to purchase a television, get his shirts ironed or visit a chiropracter in the early hours of the morning is something that, like opera, is nice to know is there should he need it.
The opportunity offered to visit a psychic ('palmistry, tarot and crystal ball') in the pre-dawn hours though is one which confuses him. For surely you have to be drunker than an English football player the night before an important World Cup qualifying match to visit a psychic at 3 am?
What could she tell him? That within her crystal ball she sees a sore head in the morning? That his life line suggests him lying face down in a gutter in a pool of his own vomit in the near future? That the cards suggest he may find himself buying a kebab sometime soon?
Actually, the latter would not be possible, not in the true English sense of a chilli sauce-drenched kebab anyway. For New York does not stoop to such monstrosities when it comes to their food. A kebab in Manhattan, even one prepared by a street vendor catering for the post-psychic crowd, would be a culinary delight of real meat, freshly cooked.