After last week’s ocean of loneliness, I thought that perhaps it was time to admit some basic facts about human nature—strangers in New York do not seem to want to eat lunch with me and asking them fills me with dread. As I headed to Bay Ridge, the end of the R line, I decided upon yet another strategy. I would canvass the streets, asking people what their favorite lunch spot was, and when a consensus emerged, I would go there.
This new plan filled me with fresh optimism and brazenness, and I immediately got a few recommendations for a couple of Irish restaurants on 3rd Avenue (O’Sullivan’s and Chadwick’s). And then I happened upon John, a sad-eyed Syrian man who considered my question long and hard.
“What country are you from?” he asked.
“Um, America,” I replied.
“No, no, I mean, what kind of food do you eat?” He eyed my dark hair and made a tentative guess. “You like Italian food?” Continue reading