FOR my third date with Tracy I’m taking her to the Sum Hey Rice Shoppe in Manhattan. Every Long Island family has a favorite restaurant in Chinatown, and ours is the Sum Hey Rice Shoppe. “You’re going to love this place,” I tell her. “When I was a kid I used to order pork chow mai fun and smear it on the plate with ketchup.”

Tracy beams at me from the passenger seat. She clearly likes that I’m already sharing family stuff.

I wait for the pedestrians to clear before turning off Canal onto Mott. At Bayard I take a left. “There’s the restaurant,” I say. “You want to get out and I’ll go park?”

“Nah,” Tracy says. “I’ll help you find a spot.”

O.K.

I drive to the end of Bayard, but there are no spots. At Bowery I swing a right, then at Pell another right. There’s what looks like a spot, but when we get closer I notice a two-pronged fire hydrant protruding from a brick wall. Nothing on Pell.

I try to reassure Tracy. “We’ll find one.”

“I’m not worried,” she says. “I have really good parking karma.”