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My mother and I are debating the name of a restaurant that no longer exists. It’s a sultry summer night in Gloucester. Across the street—we’re in a nondescript parking lot, at the rear entrance to Savour Wine & Cheese—a massive seagull chases a tween through the courtyard of a church. My mother is remembering one of my August birthdays over a decade ago, when, back in New York, I scored an impossible-to-get reservation at a zeitgeisty sushi speakeasy in the East Village. She tried to send flowers, but the restaurant wouldn’t disclose the address, so she had them delivered to my brother’s apartment instead, and he descended
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