“Do you recommend the tuna salad?” he asked.

 

Ordering

Dear Diary:

When I was an undergrad at Fordham, my older brother came to New York for a short visit. I met him at Penn Station to spare him having to navigate the D train to the Bronx by himself.

He had been living in California for a while and he walked through the station as though he had brought a West Coast fog with him.

After allowing almost everyone to push past us up the stairs to Eighth Avenue, I suggested we step into a nearby deli. The line at the counter was not short, but it was moving swiftly.

Protectively, I stepped in line first. I noticed my brother studying the menu on the wall and felt a sudden panic.

“Decide what you want before you get to the front,” I blurted out.

He looked at me as if I had told him that he needed to take off his clothes. Unfortunately, I had no time to explain or get his acknowledgment. It was my turn.

In an effort to show him what I had been trying to say, I stepped up to the counter.

“I’ll have the No. 1,” I said.

My brother was next. I held my breath.

To my horror, he did not just reveal that he was not ready but went further than that.

“Do you recommend the tuna salad?” he asked.

— Kathy Eppright