On the F train to Brooklyn my attention is drawn to a middle-aged man sitting across from me, one of the only other passengers on the train. He’s short, heavyset and balding, and he’s wearing a white golf shirt, black slacks and black shoes. He carries a black bag slung over his shoulder. His outfit strikes me as a uniform of some kind, and it’s not until a few stops later that I notice he has a white piece of fabric in his hands, which he keeps folding and unfolding, with the name ‘Ignazio’s Pizza’ is written on its front. The pieces come together: he’s a waiter at a pizza restaurant, the piece of fabric is an apron, and the restaurant is Ignazio’s Pizza, a new pizza joint with faux-industrial decor that sits at the corner of Water Street at Fulton Ferry Landing. I’ve passed by this restaurant many times in fact – in the beginning was drawn to it because it represented a bold, if not foolhardy attempt to draw business away from the seemingly indefatigable Grimaldi’s, known for its hour-long waits and mythical Brooklyn bona-fides (before the restaurant descended into infighting and split into two ‘real’ Grimaldi’s franchises). Strange, I think, as I watch the waiter fold and re-fold his apron, that someone would wear their uniform from home instead of changing into it on the premises. Perhaps there is an official policy that encourages employees to come already dressed? Perhaps it’s this particular employee’s first day – which would explain his nervous tic with the apron… There seems to be something fundamentally wrong with traveling ‘in uniform’ – namely, that one doesn’t get paid for travel time. I feel a sudden rush of sympathy for this man and his job (which, for all I know, he may love – maybe he’s wearing the uniform out of pride), still: I resolve never to eat at the faux-authentic Ignazio’s Pizza at Fulton Ferry Landing.