11:30 am, North Beach. Fat man in tight blue-striped shirt, to his merely roly-poly ten year-old twins. “How about here?” he suggests, stopping at the big windows of Il Pollaio. The kids watch with mild interest as a man with tongs piles chicken on the grill. Their interest wanes as they see huge plates of salad prepared. “Naw,” says the boy. “It doesn’t look too hot.” I want to interrupt, to shake him and tell him this is not only the best place to eat, but the healthiest. But I keep my mouth shut. I”m shadowing them. This family has no accent that I can discern, so they’re probably Michigan or Ohio.

Walking south on Columbus. I’m behind the boy and only have his arm movement to go by, but he seems to be picking his nose. His sister steps into the bay of L’Osteria. “It’s not open, honey,” says her dad. “Who cares,” she says, “It looks stupid. I don’t want to have to ask people to translate for me.”

A few doors up the street, they stop at Mara’s Pastry shop. In they go. I walk on up to the corner and wait. After awhile they come back out onto the street and turn my way. They stop a moment and the man doles out pastries. Almond croissants. They pass by me, eating, studying the pastry between bites. I follow two more blocks until they are stopped at the long light at Broadway, where I catch up. They stare along both sides of the street which leads, four blocks ahead, to the TransAmerica building. “I don’t think there’s a Wendy’s or McDonald’s in this whole city,” says the boy. “Maybe we should go back to that chicken place.” The father makes a face.

“I’m getting hungry, dad.”

When the light turns green, they do not cross, but do an about face. “Okay,” dad says, “If you want chicken, we’ll try it.” Off they go. My curiosity is satisfied. I don’t follow.