The server who showed us to our table at Nojo was not the same one who brought us a bottle of water. Yet another server took our drinks order, but he was not the same person who brought our squid, or set down two skewers of chicken thighs. To be frank, I wasn’t sure how many waiters we really had: He/she had the same T-shirt, and stepped to the table as if he/she had been watching over it all night, but seemed to change haircuts, genders, and tattoo configurations each time I blinked. It was like being raised by collective mothers. Every time I cried, someone picked me up; after a while, I forgot to care who the arms belonged to.