Tapas in New York


Memory plagues me sometimes – I cannot erase the little vignettes and conversations that compose all the time that has slipped through my fingers.

In October in New York, while waiting for a table at, if I remember correctly, Boqueria (I am not a foodie and I don't remember or chronicle these kinds of details particularly), my companion and I were taking bets on whether the hostess was a student and, if so, what was her major. I was quite sure that she started out pre-med or something her parents wanted but had gone to university and said "fuck it" and went into art history. I cannot remember the rest of the bet. I would never have found out the answer because I am a little standoffish and shy; I just don't ask questions, even to settle bets. My companion, though, intense and bold in most things, asked and discovered that I was almost right (art history minor or something similar, but no pre-med).

We never got a table; we ended up just snagging seats at the walk-in bar and eating there. All in all, it was a memorable evening.

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