My corner deli has a Greek name but is run by a couple of Irish brothers. The counter guys are Mexicans. The newsstand owner across the street is a handsome but dour Yemenite with a bushy mustache. The guy who works for him is Pakistani, but he's away this week. A part-timer, a stoner kid from the neighborhood, is filling in, and he came to the deli to get the boss's breakfast. The conversation with the counter guy went like this:

"It's, uh, for Abdul. He wants -- "

"I know what he want."

"Cool. Uh, he takes his coffee -- "

"I know how he take it."

"And, uh, a roll -- "

"Butter roll. I know."

"Cool. Uh, how much?"

"He no pay."

"Uh?"

"Here, take. Make him happy."

"Uh, what?"

"He Saddam's nephew. So now he sad."

The counter guy says this in perfect deadpan. The stoner looks over his shoulder at the newsstand. "Uh, he is?"

"Claro. Pero, no say nothing. He keep it secret. Next!"

Next is me. I don't order: the counter guy knows what I want, too. I do pay, though, and walk out just behind the stoner. "Hey," he says. "Uh, did you know -- "

"Nope," I say. "He keeps it secret."

"Uh," says the stoner. He nods. "Cool. That's cool." And crosses the street, to give his boss his breakfast, and make him happy.