I was climbing to the upstairs at Citarella, that sneaky second floor that is exactly like a thousand delis in the city with the word "gourmet" in their name: the low lighting, vaguely both romantic and creepy, like you're in the dining room of Dracula's castle; the inviting, florid glow of pricey smoothies on refrigerated shelves, the dusty stacks of non-economy sized cereals and muesli; the rows upon rows of nuts, wasabi peas, apricots, yogurt-covered raisins and plasticky Japanese snacks in clear plastic tubs; the European chocolate cookies.

Halfway up I passed a woman on her phone.

"Babka. Yes. I'm getting a babka."

Chuckle. Pause.

"Are you getting me a babka too?"