A: Where should we eat?
B: I’m happy to go anywhere!
A: Me too. I’m easy. I don’t care where we go. At all.
B: Same. Any restaurant you have in mind?
A: No, I’ll go to literally any restaurant in this town. Any neighborhood that’s more convenient for you?
B: No, every location in existence is convenient for me. Any kind of food you’re craving?
A: Nothing in particular. When I look inside my mind, I picture a box labeled THINGS I WANT TO EAT, and when I open the box, it’s filled with every food known to man. Don’t you have dietary restrictions? Where should we eat that can accommodate you?
B: No, I can eat literally anything. And I’m happy to do it! I can reach inside a trash can, pull out the first thing my hand clutches, and take a big bite of whatever it happens to be, no problem! Are there cuisines we should avoid? That you don’t like?
A: No, I enjoy eating every cuisine from every region of every country in the world. Try to find a food I won’t eat. You can’t. If there were a restaurant that served poison, I would gleefully meet you there. Are you in the mood for something specific?
B: No, I am currently in the mood for every food. Tacos, sushi, pasta—they are all equally appealing.
A: Are you saying you might be in the mood for tacos, sushi, or pasta?
B: Fuck you. Those were only a few examples from an overwhelming, infinite pool of possibilities. Why? Do you have a specific restaurant in mind that serves tacos, sushi, or pasta? It sounds like you might be thinking of a specific restaurant.
A: No fucking way. I remain 100-percent neutral in the restaurant selection process. I’m just so chill and easygoing that I could genuinely go anywhere.
B: I am equally chill and easygoing. You could take me to a restaurant where the waiters slap you in the face.
A: You could take me to a restaurant that only serves ice cream cones children dropped on the ground.
B: You could take me to a restaurant that’s on Mars and I’d never see my family ever again.
A: Is that a restaurant you’re recommending?
B: How dare you. Giving even the slightest hint of recommending a restaurant implies I think I should wield the power of a tyrannical god. Out of the kindness of my heart, I bequeath the honor and the privilege of picking the restaurant to you.
A: You are ever so kind. But picking the restaurant would mean I delight in bending the independent wills of my dining companions to my own designs. And that’s just not who I am. I am clay at the hands of your restaurant desires. I yield to your dining whims. Mold me. I am yours.
B: The moment I say the name of a restaurant, I put my entire reputation on the line. I become the restaurant. The restaurant is me. If the food is bad or the service is slow, you will think me a scoundrel. I cannot choose, for I am a coward. Do you have the strength required to make this weighty decision?
A: I am weak. Thinking of restaurants—their names, menus, and locations—hurts my delicate brain, and I simply refuse to do it. What can be done?
B: Should we just go to that spot we always go to?
A: That place sucks.