In an exhibition about New York lunch breaks I press a button to hear a song about a meal dispensing machine. 'You're too young to remember the Automat', says a strong accent from behind me. She is short with cropped hair in a light shade. Her skin is brown and weathered. With her is a lady of similar age whose hair is a voluminous russet with a blond streak. She is wearing tortoise-shell sunglasses the arms of which are thick and golden.
They reminisce about putting a quarter in the slot and taking out a bowl of hot soup or creamed spinach. 'Whole meals', says the short-haired lady. She has been to the exhibition before but wanted to bring her friends as an exercise in nostalgia. 'You must listen to all the songs', she tells me. 'And watch the videos'. They find the menu for a Diner they recognise.
'I don't have one', she says when I ask my question. 'And nor does she', nodding towards her friend with the bling sunglasses. She calls over a third companion who used to be a teaching colleague of hers. 'This young gentleman wants to know your middle name', she says. The colleague, with glasses perched on the end of her nose, a striped top and shorts, gives me the answer I need.
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