Some busy restaurants employ a community table, an efficient setup for small parties and walk-ins who don't mind sitting next to strangers to reduce wait times.

The first time I sat at a community table, I was trying to get a lobstah roll at Neptune Oyster in Bahston. After a short introduction, the guy next to me asked, without prompting, “have you heard of crypto?” He then told me his dad took out a couple thousand dollars on his mom's credit card to “invest” in cryptocurrencies. That money disappeared in a flash, and his parents have separated. I changed the topic, silently thanking some divine force I wasn't being sold cryptocurrencies at the community table.

The second time I sat at a community table, I was trying to get some pasta at Flour + Water in the Mission District. I sat as a party of one, smack dab between a party of four and another party of three. It quickly became clear to me that I didn't have much opportunity for conversation with the parties around me, a double date and a girls’ night out. I practiced not making eye contact for the next hour. To break the monotony, I considered, just for a delicious moment, asking “have you heard of crypto?”

The most recent time I sat at a community table, I was trying to get some sushi at Tenroku Sushi in Japantown. The entire restaurant shares the same long community table. Based on their conversation, the party next to me had traveled here all the way from Europe. Their style of chatter suggested I could join in if I wanted to. However, I felt too shy to test the barrier. At one point, the one from around Sicily (I think?) exclaimed “I love uni! I broke up with my last boyfriend because he didn't like uni.” Totally coincidentally, I ordered a plate of uni sushi.