You fool! You thought that you could come here for a quick bite—perhaps a slice of pizza drizzled with hot honey, or an empanada filled with chorizo and esquites. Well, we hope it was worth it, because now you’re trapped in our artisanal food hall for all eternity.
Look around. You will find no egress—simply more stalls. We feature delicacies from every corner of the earth, and, as we brought in more and more chefs selling more and more Kobe sliders, our hall became as large as the world itself. You cannot leave because you never entered. You have been reborn in this food hall, in front of the hummus place, and you will die here, next to a different hummus place.
Gaze upon that old, wizened man in tattered rags eating a chimichurri-steak sandwich. He was like you once—a young foodie, excited about the hall’s near-infinite possibilities. Now he’s a spectre of his former self, condemned to walk these aisles for all time, hoping to sample items from a few different places but inevitably ending up spending seventeen dollars on a bowl of ramen.
Soon, your notions of time and space will begin to break down. Indeed, the process has already begun. Can you even be sure that you are you anymore? Usually, you don’t like Indian food, but here you sit, eating yet another order of tikka masala. “What’s in that sauce?” you whisper to yourself. “It is your history and future,” the void whispers back. You look up and realize that the tikka-masala place is now gone, replaced by a mirror that reflects your soul and also a guy selling popcorn with truffle butter on it.
Your entreaties will get you nowhere. The passersby you ask for directions are as lost as you are. They walk, ceaselessly, searching for a table with at least two of those wildly uncomfortable metal stools free or, at the very least, that taco place that David Chang said was “fucking delicious.”
Turn left, then right. You see a door—that’s it! A way out. You open the door, and what do you find? Not the life you left behind but a minotaur! Excuse us—a minotaur place. You’ve found a place that serves both grilled and fried minotaur. It’s so, so good.
Bathrooms? Ha! We created this netherworld and even we have no idea where they are. Maybe they’re over by the vegan-ice-cream place. Let us know . . . if you ever return.
As you pass the same banh-mi stand for the third time, you begin to wonder—maybe you are not trapped in a physical maze but rather in a Kafkaesque maze of your own making. Incidentally, Kafkaesque Maze of Your Own Making is the name of an amazing Czech stall, where you get to choose what kind of sausage goes in your goulash. Seriously, you have to try it.
We will offer you a wager. If you can answer this riddle, you may leave: There are two pan-Asian-dumpling stalls. The employees at one always tell the truth. The employees at the other always lie. Also, the employees at the first one make this amazing nuoc cham with spicy chilis, whereas the second one specializes in gyoza. At which one should you ask for directions to the exit? Will you grab some soup dumplings to go? Can we have some?
If you consult the ancient scrolls, you will learn that, yes, there is a way out—but you may not like it. The only way to escape is to go down that long and winding corridor. Turn when you see the Three-Headed Dog (a gourmet hot-dog stall) and pass through the portal. You will have left this cursèd place, but you will not be free. You will be in a pour-over coffee shop. And you’ll try to order coffee, but they’ll talk to you about what kind of beans you want. For a long time. For all of time! Until the sun consumes itself and all living things! Then, and only then, will your coffee be ready.
