I stood in line for beer while the Afro-Honduran band played in the lobby of the Brooklyn Museum. The bass reverberated harshly against the floor-to-ceiling glass. You could tell there was interesting music being played, and sung, but—BOOM BOOM BOOM. As I neared the temporary bar, I observed a woman dressed in black pulling trays out of some kind of food service apparatus. The kind they roll down the aisle on airplanes, but bigger. The trays seemed to be frosted on the edges, and filled with water. A man held a white bucket in which she poured the water, much of which splattered on the floor. He wore a T-shirt that said: Pop! Then she pulled out a tray that was arrayed with fist-sized lumps of dough, each one soaked through. She paused for a moment, as though to ask herself if what she was about to do was all right, and then she pitched the food into the bucket too. Then another tray of the same, then another. As I passed the counter I saw big serving bowls of orange sauce that had been destined for these ruined things, and a sign: empanadas, one for three dollars, two for five. I ordered three beers and walked away.