DEC 5, 2024 | FEATURES | By Anya Jones
At a local neighborhood restaurant, there worked a man named Alfred. At this local neighborhood restaurant, Alfred single-handedly conquers all the front-of-house affairs, tending to all patrons with thoughtful care and an evident love for the artwork of food. But Alfred’s heart lies in the back of the house, in the kitchen. He’s culinary-trained and has always dreamed of opening his place featuring elevated Filipino cuisine. None of this is made up by the way.
Opening a restaurant is financial warfare and a deeply personal experience. A new restaurant’s success depends entirely on how other people feel about the food and service it offers. Alfred has found a solution to this problem: he hosts a pop-up in his apartment every two months.
There are six to eight seats on a given pop-up night. He has converted his living room into a sensual dining experience while he and his partner deliver a delightful eight-course meal of small bites, each with a unique story and taste. My mother, half Filipina herself, has never missed an opportunity to support someone with her shared heritage. So we found ourselves seated at this pop-up with four strangers.
First of all, we arrived three minutes late. No one else arrived late. No, everyone’s heads turned with curiosity and a twinge of judgment when we walked in. Once we sat down, I was taken aback by the fact that there was no indication of how these people knew each other or knew about this pop-up. The emotional discomfort that rippled through the air in those initial seconds was painfully perceptible. It was the kind of discomfort that exists when six strangers are randomly seated at a wedding table; ostensibly, there is something you can all connect over — a reliable conversation starter — but the frustration of your own discomfort somehow blinds you to this fact. You realize you’re waiting for someone else to speak first despite knowing you have a perfectly great thing to say, but due to the fact that you’ve waited a beat too long you now find yourself inexplicably mute. And everyone is having that experience.
Arjen, whose hair is to his shoulders and wrapped in a haphazard ponytail, sticks his hand out and introduces himself. For some reason, he is the only person I remember doing this. I eventually learned Jenny’s name, but after three hours of sitting at a table with these people, I don’t think I have ever heard the names of the other two. I’ll get to that later. Arjen breaks the inches-thick ice with a genuine smile and an expected handshake. Upon first impression, Arjen is 28, not into exercise but would enjoy a good pick-up soccer league, most likely working in software or graphic design, loves to cook, and would choose cats over dogs.
I came to learn that Arjen is 25, is super into soccer, works as a data scientist for a startup, calls cooking his Happy Place and owns no pets yet. I also learned that Arjen grew up in India and then attended Vassar College, where he met his lovely girlfriend, Jenny, sitting to his left. Additional facts: he has abnormally weak bones, a sister who he travels with once a year, an extended family of 25, a mother who despises tattoos, a desire for a patchwork sleeve, a deep loyalty to his local bakery and a religious dedication to “The Great British Baking Show”. What he didn’t say, but was abundantly clear, was that he loves people. He has a deep curiosity for the world and those who inhabit it, and his love language is most certainly acts of service.
Jenny, Arjen’s girlfriend, grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She lived there until recently. She has spent the past few months living with Arjen and working as a substitute teacher after leaving her design job. Jenny and Arjen have been dating since the early years of college. When they graduated, their relationship became long-distance. They have been long-distance for four years, never being in the same place for more than a couple of months at a time. They don’t recommend that. Jenny is not equipped to be a substitute teacher. Her specialty is in educational policy, but this serves as a reasonable stepping stone. She’s much more soft-spoken than her extroverted boyfriend, but her friends wouldn’t say that about her. When she’s comfortable, she is the life of the party.
An unnamed man sitting across from Arjen looks like an Alex, so I will call him that for now. I don’t know where Alex grew up, but he moved to San Francisco twelve years ago. He has two boys, 16 and 14. He loves his 16-year-old — a good student, independent and kind. The 14-year-old has some troubles. Alex said he actually can’t wait for that one to graduate and get his shit together. A “joke” that everyone politely laughed at, but so many questions swirled in my head. I imagine debilitating ADHD. Alex himself was happy to be there. It was his fourth time at the pop-up. His wife would have come, but she left him for a girls’ trip to Maui. She sounds fun, which is interesting because Alex works in data management and is likely neurodivergent. He didn’t seem boring per se, just a bit odd. Anyway, he works for a company that was acquired by Nvidia a couple of years ago, so I assume he is financially set for life now.
The last woman is the biggest mystery. She watched everyone closely. She was at the pop-up because she went to UCLA with Alfred’s partner. Alfred, if you remember, is the organizer of the pop-up, the visionary, and the cook. She made sure to mention UCLA. She grew up somewhere in East LA, which is not what you imagine when thinking of Los Angeles. She lives in Pensacola, Florida now. Why? You might be wondering. She worked for the Blue Angels. She no longer does that. Now she owns a restaurant. That’s a sharp career pivot, you might be saying to yourself. You are right. She met a boy — her words, not mine — in the restaurant owning business, so she thought, “Might as well do this.” Again, her words, not mine. They are no longer together, but her restaurant remains open twelve years later. Her age is a mystery to me.
We sat here for three hours, and I will probably never see any of them again. It was only fitting to memorialize them here. Arjen, Jenny, Alex?, Ms. Florida, thank you for such a memorable evening.
*A little addendum: my mom just told me Alex’s real name is John and Ms. Florida is Amy, so do with that what you will