I press a chunk of pulled lamb into a pillowy flatbread with my bare fingers. I’m at a rooftop pop-up in Brooklyn, the kind of place where the cocktails come with dehydrated citrus wheels and strangers compare notes about natural wine. Around me, people cradle forks and knives as if they’re props in a play. I can feel their side-eyes grazing me, the faint curl of judgement in their lips. But I keep going. I’m shameless, tearing into the meal with the blunt honesty of touch. It feels good.