from top left: Katherine serves "Two Soups Happy Together"; Cassie and Aki in conversation; plates mid-meal; Cassie and Aki post-revelation; order tickets staked on the table; Aki's thoughts on comedians; drinks on the table; Cassie's thoughts on comedians; Mission Dolores at dusk.
The table is the place of confessions. At the far back, in the corner, we're checking out everyone who's coming and going from the bathroom.
Everyone looks at everyone, especially those people we know from Instagram, or even from real life, and my line of sight to the front door means I get to keep tabs on who's arriving. Nobody is leaving.
When the New Yorker uses the word "buzzy" to describe the scene at a restaurant, I guess this is what they're talking about.
The scene has showed up. The bartender who made me a Paloma on Saturday afternoon is here, as are the DJs, the painters, and the hot Australians.
As we watch all these people and they watch us, the ricocheting noise of conversation and music creates an ambient and shifting blanket of privacy. So as we are very much on display, the confessional takes shape.
Here's the thing about age. On the internet, which takes up so much space that it becomes tantamount to or even surpasses the reality of reality, I am led to believe that this time in my life is about "Finding a Partner" or "Building my Career."
It is becoming my job to decide whether or not I should watch the following videos: "MARRY THE RIGHT PERSON?", "Therapist_Dave's Red Flag Warning," "He Did THIS 13 Years After Retiring," "RYAN GOSLING'S DAUGHTER IS A BIG FAN OF THE [thumbs down emoji]."
But in this bar, and at the gallery and on the street, and especially at the dinner table, it is possible to stop gulping from the ocean. People who look like people. Friends who feel like friends.
We have heard that the prefrontal cortex reaches maturity at the age of 25. We turn to each other wondering, "Does your brain feel like it's done cooking? Does yours?"
Maybe not, but at least we've come far enough that Cassie is able to go full circle with Hooked on Phonics.
The Mushroom is serving tonight and we order a "Carrot Pile and Crudités," "Savory Pancake" and "Mizuna Salad." "#1 Hippie Sandwich" is already sold out, but "Sexy Vegan Cheese Plate" is still on offer, as is "Two Soups Happy Together," which Katherine serves nymph-like through the crowd.
Alex wears Kermit green from toque to toe and appears at the mouth of the makeshift kitchen, which is also the last remnant of the dive bar that used to be. The chef's domain is like a cave with cracked red paint and a string of halogen lights that adorn a staircase which recedes into a dark and unseen corner. But what exits from such darkness is the bright and spicy flavors of sharp, fresh greens and a pile of carrots so true to its name that I laugh deliriously when it's placed on the table.
This is the kind of food that makes me sure that my brain's still cooking, new neural pathways opened up by the ingenuity of two slices of radish sandwiched together by a generous dollop of hummus.
