Dear NY,
Since starting an internship in the city about a month ago, Dana and I have met up a couple times for a much-needed trip to Chipotle and happy hour (although not necessarily in that order). On one particular occasion, we decided to spice things up and go to happy hour at the Blind Pig on 14th street. Maybe it was because neither of us had eaten a lot that day or the drinks were strong, but we got pretty sloshy pretty quick and decided to visit the waffle truck nearby.
Now, if you hadn't realized both Dana and I tend to adopt our version of fake british accents when drunk. I suppose this could make it hard to understand us. However, not only did the waffle man seem startled that Dana said her name was Trunk, but I told him mine was Jose. Really?!? JOSE?!? Who knew that he would get so excited about that and asked if I was Latino? Granted I have some roots in Argentina, but why I decided to tell him I was Latino is something I’ll never understand.
To top it all off, we brought some waffle virgins to the waffle truck a week later in Park Slope. They called out the name Trunk and then called us out. They remembered us…
Joe
you can call me Jose though
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