At the farthest table by the window, Clark Kent sits alone. He’s a large man, broad-shouldered in a slightly-too-small tweed jacket over a red flannel shirt. His thick, black-framed glasses are focused intently on the menu in his hands.

He doesn’t notice you until you’re almost at the table. Then he looks up, his eyes widening behind the lenses. He stands up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly on the wooden floor.