Last week we went to a restaurant called Buck’s, opened recently to wild enthusiasm, which wraps up your meal like parcel post and sends it out to the gravel car park while you wait. The idea is to picnic inside your auto, staring at other strangers with catsup on their chins and napkins draped on the steering wheels. You would bawl. It is called a drive-in.

Harrison Shepherd, letter to Frida Kahlo, in Barbara Kingsolver, The Lacuna