At the farmer’s market in City Hall Park.
Woman in crowd (60-ish, with NY accent): You smell like soy sauce.
Me: I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You’re smelling the Tibetan momo stand over there.
W: Oh, I suppose you’re right. Sorry.
M: This place is a cacophony of smells, there’s maple-flavored everything, and sausages grilling—I even got a whiff of weed just a moment ago.
W (suddenly lights up; looking around): Oh really? Where? Over there on the lawn?
M: Yeah, I think so.
Woman scoots off. I shake my head. Tourists.