I ask. It’s 8:30 p.m., and we’re seated at a tiny table inside an equally minute Thai restaurant in Seattle, across the Sound from Vashon Island. The restaurant’s narrow facade is deceiving. Inside, the ceiling opens to a second-floor dining room with space for only six tables. We have a bird’s-eye view of the kitchen below, where a cloud of steam rises from an ancient hammered pot as the cook ladles up two bowls of soup. “I came here with a friend,” Jack says. “And left with the waitress.” A young woman appears at the top of the steps and deposits our dinner on the battered wooden table. When she’s gone, I give him a look. “This waitress? She looks about sixteen.” “Different one, actually.” “And is this safe to eat?” I lift a spoonful of soup. “You know better than to piss off the person feeding you, I hope.”
