Borough Bites was packed. A sea of customers packed into red vinyl booths, nurses still in scrubs, a couple of construction workers at the counter, a family with toddlers smearing ketchup on the table. A neon sign flickered over the register: “EST. 1958.”

You stood just inside the door, a crumpled hiring flyer in one hand, a résumé in the other, feeling very much like fresh meat.

Then, as if summoned by your awkwardness, a woman appeared from behind the host stand, weaving through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this for years. She was mid-forties, with dirty blonde hair braided over one shoulder and a name tag that read MARTHA in bold letters.