If there is such a

If there is such a thing as perfection, it would probably be best described as a delicious brunch eaten while very hungry on a sunny late-July Sunday while trying to recuperate after a long night. The brunch would be at a Cuban restaurant in Park Slope where there is no wait and the air is cooled. And despite the fact that you would have come in wanting their eggs Florentine with chipotle hollandaise sauce, you would have ordered eggs over medium that would have come with salty, spicy yucca hash browns and cold mango juice. And for the hell of it, you would have ordered a side of their pan dulce, which would have really been buttery, inch-thick slices of brioche that you would peel layers off of and alternately spread on dulce de leche and mango jam. There would have been black tea with milk, too; and you would have left feeling very full and very content and very near perfect.

On the subway the other day, I was sitting facing a row of blond tourists, a mom, young grandma, and 12-year-old son, who were chatting away in a foreign language. Across from them was a guy in shorts who had a bag at his feet, into which he’d occasionally reach and pull a small green oval fruit or nut of some kind. He’d roll it around in his palms, giving it a good squeeze between is hands. Then he’d cup it in both hands and put his hands between his thighs and squeeze his thighs. Eventually, he would work the casing off and eat the insides before starting again. I was kind of watching this out of the side of my eye and not really paying attention. Yes, it was a little strange, but he was being very quiet and neat about it and the train wasn’t that full. In fact, I became much more engrossed with watching the tourists who were in serious, laughing, debate about something or someone on the train. Even though they weren’t speaking English, the grandma kept putting her hand over her mouth, leaning way over the laps of the other two and whispering something to them which sent them into peals of laughter, which they were trying to cover up. The mom would get it together for a minute, and then start to lose it again, eventually doubling over in silent laughter. At one point she pulled out a tissue because she’d started crying.

They would look at me, then look in the opposite direction, then watch someone else, so I was going nuts trying to figure out what exactly it was they were laughing at. Finally it occurred to me that it must be the guy smashing the fruit between his thighs. And sure enough, as soon as I started looking for it, the uncontrolled snickering would start as soon as the man would pull out another fruit. They were looking at me to see if I also thought this was hilarious. And the awful thing is, it all of a sudden WAS hilarious. I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from losing it when they would start the choking laugh. Because laughing is contagious, because I suddenly realized the punch line, because this guy was cracking weird fruits with his thighs on the subway.

UPDATE: 10 points to Abby! I think she may be right. Maybe he was removing seeds while eating the pulp and I missed that part.

--------