For the past two years, on (almost) every fourth Saturday of the month, our apartment turns into a part-time restaurant. Sixteen to 20 people show up at our gate over by the Domino Sugar Factory, tucked under the Williamsburg Bridge, to eat with people they’ve never met. We call it Neighbor.
The first dinner was nerve wracking. We spent all week preparing. We went through the schedule over and over and over and over again. We worried about everything. Who would come? Will they think it’s weird? Will they like the food?