Miss Jill's Hipster Reeducation Program

Per American sitcoms, there is nothing more comforting than walking into a local diner and ordering "the usual." I guess that i am kind of weird looking, because on several occasions, waiters or department store clerks have remembered what I have bought in the past (six months after the fact- "Oh, didn't you buy the Lancome pore mask last time?") Ok, maybe this mostly happened in Latin America where not only am I an albino freak, but most of the stores are fronts for money laundering and rarely have customers. However, once in a while it happens here.

So I have something in Park Slope every week and I found this delicious falafel place in the neighborhood. It is owned by a gregarious Israeli guy and he always remembers how I like things. I don't want to feel pressure to talk to have a heart to heart with him every time, so I don't starts convos with him like I do with most random people, but he is a nice guy. Unfortunately, at times it is a bastion for yippies and hipsters who want to show off how multicultural they are.

While I was peacefully reading and eating last night, two hipsters walked through the door. One kind of had a Rasta look going on and the other was the typical white guy with a mane that emulated the cleanliness and texture of the fur of your dog that you put to sleep four days ago. I was pretty sure that they were eating en route to a Free Mumia rally.

Rasta was pretty friendly and immediately grabbed my arm and pointed out the window and said, "Look, a pimp just walked by." Unfortunately, I need subtitles for Caribbean accent, because by the time I figured out what he had told me, said pimp was long gone. I am pretty sure that it was just a man in a fur coat. Dog Corpse Hair started perusing the menu board (what is this called?) and loudly saying, "That is way too expensive, I should just go to one of those cheap carts. I can't believe Park Slope."

The Israeli's eyes started to burn with rage and he yelled, "What you mean, I just go to these trucks? They just be giving you two balls of falafel and a piece of lettuce? I give you four! Four! No one does that!"

In spite of the verbal onslaught Dog Corpse Hair's eyes stoically maintained the glazed expression of someone who has never filled out a W-2. "Uhh yeah," he replied. "I am an expert on falafel. I think I can get the same thing cheaper."

"What you saying? I have been eating this since I was born! No one cooks pita like me! No one! Do this truck give you free hummus?" This went on for a while, but Dog Corpse Hair had no perceptible change in mood. Finally the Israeli screamed, "This is the best falafel in the entire world, you will try it right now. Just ask that woman over there and she will tell you everything!"

Well you can guess who "that woman" was and I felt everyone's eyes boring into me. As my experience is rather limited, I felt a bit inadequate in nominating the best falafel in the entire world. However, he never gives you a thin, cardboard-like pita, so I knew that I owed it to him. I let out a nervous laugh and nodded earnestly while saying, "Uh yeah, it is great."

They took my word for it and started to eat. Rasta asked his friend, "What kind of food is this?" Dog Corpse Hair replied, "Turkish."

The Israeli almost jumped over the counter, full of indignation, "THIS IS NOT TURKISH!"

Dog Corpse hair looked up, with minimal interest and replied, "I know a lot about Turkish food actually."

My book was kind of dry, so I decided that I couldn't leave the apoplectic falafel maker without backup, so I jumped into the fray and started arguing with Dog Corpse Hair too. He was not interested in our passionate arguments and a few minutes later he stood up and said, "Thanks for the good time, guy, this was delicious." Rasta unexpectedly stroked my back and muttered something indiscernible.

And then they were gone. As the Israeli ranted for several minutes, I experienced a moment of gratitude that my parents didn't give me a trust fund for buying cannabis.