Evening Edge

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John Kessler writes food features and a column about food and more for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution E-mail John Kessler Recent Kessler columns Your fool-proof checklist for Thanksgiving  Hours of low-temperature cooking yield tender, juicy meat  Different things to sample on my new dining menu         More John Kessler Related: John Kessler's blog: Food & More John Kessler's recipes Meridith Ford Goldman's Table Talk Jeanne Besser's Feeding Frenzy Evening Edge Atlanta Restaurant reviews and search Recipes from Atlanta restaurants Favorite Atlanta recipes

There were three of us in the elevator. A woman I don't know. Me. The clamshell box of lunch in my hand. The latter may as well have been a man in a porkpie hat and satin spats whistling show tunes. It was the most noticeable and cheerfully outgoing occupant of the elevator car.

The woman looked at the box. I looked at the elevator buttons, sensing and shying away from her interest.

"That sure does smell good," she commented.

"Yes," I agreed, shifting on the balls of my feet.

"What is it?" she demanded, her eyes intent on the box and lips parted.

What is it? Why is she asking me this? When can I get off this elevator? How have we only gone three floors? What is it, she wants to know?

"It's deep fried goat gonads smothered in a sauce made from pureed raw liver, fermented ewe's milk and rose petals," I said.

OK, I didn't. I thought about saying that but didn't actually go through with it. My old, jerky Northeastern self rarely comes out to play in Atlanta.

"It's brown stew chicken from the little Jamaican place across the street," I admitted.

"Mmm. Is that what it is?" she asked, now smiling. "Jamaican food?"

Yes, I told her, explaining where the Jamaican place was. As my new friend held the elevator door open at her floor, I gave her all my best tips — to call the order in ahead of time, to get rice and peas to sop up the sauce, to be patient with the woman at the counter, who gets cross.

I brought my box of food to my desk, pushed some papers aside to make room, cracked it open and tried to sort through the encounter as if I were two people: a therapist and his strange, food-obsessed patient.

Therapist: What did you feel when the woman asked about your lunch?

Patient: Well, embarrassment, I guess. I mean there's something kind of intimate about your own food.

Therapist: So, you have intimacy issues?

Patient: I wouldn't put it that way, but the whole point of taking food to your desk is that it's a solitary act, not meant to be shared.

Therapist: Then how would you deter people from asking questions?

Patient: Maybe by making a different choice. I mean, if I had gone to Subway, the food wouldn't smell and it would be clear to anyone looking through the clear plastic bag whether I had gone for the 6-incher or the not-going-to-drop-a-pants-size-anytime-soon foot-long.

If I had gone to Chick-fil-A, the bag would have filled the elevator with that tantalizing, you-know-you-want-it smell. But no one would ask what it was. They'd recognize the siren call of waffle fries.

Therapist: Our time is almost up, so let's try and figure out what's really going on here. Do you think maybe the problem is that you don't really like eating at your desk?

Patient: Aha! Of course. What a strange thing it is, the workday lunch. All these people scurrying around, grabbing clamshell boxes of pad Thai and stuffed cabbage, all that wasted packaging, all those furtively consumed calories, and not a simple human interaction in the whole business. The elevator is really the only time when you can ...

Therapist: When you can what?

Patient: Share.