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“I told you,” he replied. “Just because I like to see the best in people doesn’t mean that’s all I can see.” He was quiet for a moment. We took a step forward, and suddenly the smell of fresh frying latkes hit my nose. I breathed in deep. I rarely thought that anything could smell better than French fries, but this might smell better than French fries. More surface area for the oil to caress the potato. It was science.

Seth cleared his throat. “Do you think…” He trailed off before he could finish whatever he was going to say.

I waited. “Do I think what?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Pressed his lips together. Opened them. “Do you think that latkes are superior to French fries?”

It wasn’t like I had an idea of what he was going to say, but I hadn’t seen that coming. I guess maybe I thought he was going to continue the conversation we’d been having. Not that it mattered. So what if maybe he wasn’t as annoying as I’d thought? “Yes. Latkes are obviously superior to French fries, because of the lacy, crispy edges and the pillowy insides.”

“French fries have crispy outsides and pillowy insides, too.”

“No, French fries have a crispy outside,” I said. “Latkes have multiple. The more the better.”

“I see,” Seth said. “So would you put latkes in the pantheon?”

“The what?”

“The pantheon of the best foods,” Seth said. “Don’t you have a list?”

“Of my favorite foods?”

“No, of the best foods,” Seth said. “They’re different. Favorite is subjective. Best is objective.”

I snorted. “There’s no such thing as an objective best food. Everybody has their own individual tastes.”

“Not entirely true,” said Seth. “Take potatoes. Have you ever met anyone who dislikes potatoes?”

“I haven’t met a lot of people,” I said. Purposely.

“Or butter,” Seth said. “Pizza. Macaroni and cheese. Really?”

I wanted to tell him that I despised pizza and wanted to vomit at the thought of macaroni and cheese, but of course that would be a lie. Pizza and macaroni and cheese were delicious. “There are lots of people who are lactose intolerant and can’t eat any of those foods.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t think they’re delicious.”

We inched forward in line. “One of my favorite things about growing up in New York was the food,” Seth said. “My dad, as you may have noticed, would be content eating brown rice with steamed broccoli and baked salmon every night, but my mom loves food. We’d travel all over the five boroughs to try all sorts of different things. Have you ever been to the Queens Night Market? It’s like the Central Park Food Festival but less expensive and less pretentious.” I shook my head. Queens was a long way from the Bronx. “I tried food from Sierra Leone there for the first time. Afghani food, Cambodian food, ceviche.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” I said. I’d grown up in kind of a Riverdale cocoon; sometimes my friends and I would go into Manhattan, but the other boroughs were at least an hour away by train, so we rarely made the trip. “What’s your favorite food neighborhood?”

Of course he couldn’t pick a favorite. As the line continued to crawl, he expounded about the Thai and Nepalese food in Jackson Heights, the Middle Eastern places in Bay Ridge, the various Chinese cuisines in the city’s multiple Chinatowns. My mouth was literally watering. “Oh my god, next time you’d better take me on a food tour.”

He stopped talking and stared at me. It took me a moment to realize why. Next time? There wouldn’t be a next time. There was this time and this time only. I let out a weak laugh. It was okay. I could always come back on my own and seek out the fried fish salad at the Thai place, the silky-smooth hummus at his favorite Lebanese joint.

Why didn’t the thought of going there alone feel better than the thought of going there with him?

As if it were a glorious sign from God to stop thinking about it, the menu board appeared ahead. I turned to face it fully, carefully avoiding Seth’s eyes so he couldn’t address my slipup. The main offering was singular: latkes. But the toppings were varied and delightful. “We should decide what we’re going to get. I vote we get one order with sweet toppings and another with savory options. I’m intrigued by the apple chutney and the cucumber raita.”

It took him a moment to talk, and in that moment I held my breath. But when he spoke, it was about the latkes. Which was what I wanted. Of course. “Any of them sound good. Get whatever you want.”

“Are you sure? You can’t complain if you don’t like it, then.”

“I’m sure.”

Of course he didn’t complain. We set up shop on a nearby bench, me starting with the savory order—trout roe; sour cream; pickled radish—and him with the sweet one—spicy apple chutney; honey; whipped cream. The second savory order, with smoked salmon and dill and cucumber, we balanced between us, because I couldn’t limit us to only two options after all. And really, when it came to fried potatoes, the more the merrier.

Especially these, because they were excellent: lacy and crisp, with crunchy edges and soft, pillowy centers. “I’m definitely going to call them for the festival,” I said, tucking the business card into my wallet after taking a quick picture just in case I got mugged. “Hopefully, we can afford them.”

“Hopefully,” Seth said. His arm brushed mine as he raised a latke to his mouth for another bite. Usually, my shifting away would have been automatic, but it took me a second this time. Probably because it was cold out, and he was emanating heat like a radiator. “Hey, you know. What you said.”