I was to learn later that the restaurant I chose, Mr. and Mrs. Bartley’s Burger Cottage, was a beloved Cambridge landmark. I stepped inside to an eye-watering assault of weaponized onion smoke and the roar of a crowd. Half the city appeared to have shoved itself into the cramped space, filling the long tables, everyone trying to talk over everybody else, including the cooks, who were shouting out their orders like quarterbacks calling signals. On the wall above the grill was an enormous blackboard bearing elaborate descriptions in colored chalk of the most off-puttingly garnished burgers I had ever heard of: pineapple, blue cheese, fried egg.

“Just you?”

The man addressing me looked more like a wrestler than a waiter—a huge, bearded fellow wearing an apron as stained as a butcher’s. I nodded dumbly.

“Singles at the counter only,” he commanded. “Grab a stool.”

A place had just come free. As the waitress behind the counter whisked away the previous occupant’s dirty plate, I slid my suitcase against the base of the counter and took a seat. It wasn’t very comfortable, but at least my luggage was hidden from view. I took my map out of my pocket and began to look it over.

“What’ll you have, hon?”

The waitress, a harried-looking older woman with sweat stains at the armpits of her Burger Cottage T-shirt, stood before me, pad and pencil poised.

“A cheeseburger?”

“Lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, ketchup, mayo, mustard, Swiss, cheddar, provolone, American, what kind of bun, toasted or plain?”

It was like trying to catch bullets from a machine gun. “Everything, I guess.”

“You want four different kinds of cheese?” She had yet to lift her eyes from her pad. “I’ll have to charge you extra.”

“I didn’t mean that. Sorry. Just the cheddar. Cheddar is fine.”

“Toasted or plain?”

“I’m sorry?”

Her eyes, weary with boredom, rose at last. “Do…you…want…your bun…toasted…or…plain?”

“Jesus, Margo, take it easy on the guy, will you?”

The voice had come from the man sitting to my right. I had studiously kept my eyes forward, but now I turned to look. He was tall, broad-shouldered but not overtly muscular, with the sort of well-proportioned face that gives the impression of having been made more carefully than most people’s. He was dressed in a rumpled oxford shirt tucked into faded Levi’s; a pair of sunglasses was perched on his head, held in place by the folds of his wavy brown hair. One ankle, his right, was propped on the opposite knee, showing a scuffed penny loafer without a sock. In the periphery of my vision he had registered as a full-fledged adult, but I now saw that he couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than I was. The difference was one not of age but of bearing. Everything about him radiated an aura of belonging, that he was a scion of the tribe and fluent in its customs.

He closed his book, placed it on the counter next to his empty coffee cup, and gave me a disarming smile that said, Don’t worry, I’ve got this.

“The man wants a cheeseburger with the works. Toasted bun. Cheddar cheese. Fries with that, I think. How about a drink?” he asked me.

“Um, milk?”

“And a milk. No,” he said, correcting himself, “a shake. Chocolate, no whip. Trust me.”

The waitress looked at me doubtfully. “Okay with you?”

The whole exchange had left me baffled. On the other hand, a shake did sound good, and I was in no mood to turn away a kindness. “Sure.”

“Attaboy.” My neighbor climbed down from his stool and tucked his book under his arm in a way that suggested all books should be carried in precisely this manner. I saw but did not understand the title: Principles of Existential Phenomenology. “Margo here will take good care of you. The two of us go way back. She’s been feeding me since I was in short pants.”

“I liked you better then,” Margo said.

“And you wouldn’t be the first to say so. Now, chop-chop. Our friend looks hungry.”

The waitress left without another word. Their repartee suddenly became clear to me. Not the banter of friends but something rather like a precocious nephew and his aunt. “Thanks,” I said to my companion.

“De nada. Sometimes this place is like a big rudeness contest, but it’s worth the hassle. So where did they put you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What dorm. You’re an incoming freshman, aren’t you?”

I was amazed. “How did you know that?”