If you give a dude a kale chip, he’s going to ask for some coffee to go with it. He’ll probably want to know if the beans are in season, and how recently they were roasted. Reading about the coffee’s origins on the back of the bag will remind him of the local farmers’ market going on that day, and he’ll want to take you.

He’ll want to fixed-gear-bike there, and, rather than a helmet, he’s going to want to wear a beanie to “keep his head warm.” He’s going to raid your closet until he finds not only the perfect cuffed one but also a denim jacket that belonged to your mother in college. He’ll probably tell you that his personal style is not a “style,” per se, but a representation of himself expressed through vintage finds with punk inflections. While explaining this, he’s going to forget about the farmers’ market, so you’re going to have to remind him.

On the way to the farmers’ market, he’s going to want to pedal alongside you, to keep the conversation going. He’ll try out some different topics, including the merits of eighteenth-century erotica and the latest thing he read on Slate. He’s not looking for a discussion; this is entirely one-sided (his side), so you’ll be able to focus on the road. He’s going to ask about your opinion on bike lanes, but, when you start to respond, he’s going to get distracted by a sidewalk book sale and insist on stopping. He might notice a few William S. Burroughs novels and test your knowledge of books banned in the sixties. He’ll tell you that David Foster Wallace got him through a sexual-identity crisis. That will remind him of a great café down the road where he used to read slam poetry. He’s going to insist that the two of you “do lunch.”

When you’re finally seated at the café, he’ll probably recognize most members of the wait staff. He’ll tell you that he used to chill with them, during his Klonopin phase. He’ll definitely need a cigarette after that confession—hand-rolled, of course. He’ll tell you that he doesn’t like to taint his body with the nicotine, and that he’s tried to quit so many times. Then he’ll show you the stick-and-poke tattoo he got after quitting the first time: a small dream catcher that a buddy did with a needle and some ink. He’ll tell you that it’s a reminder of his heritage—two per cent Native American, on his father’s side. He’ll tell you that he thinks body art is “tired”; he only likes tattoos with deep personal significance.

He’ll remember that he’s hungry, so he’ll wave his waitress friend over. He’ll ask how her photography is going. (Once she’s out of earshot, he’ll tell you that he thinks her work borrows too much from Mapplethorpe.) He’ll probably order the Korean barbecue tempeh tacos, with the most local craft beer on the side. Then he’ll tell you that he knows the brewery owner; they worked together at some startup.

When the food comes, he’ll probably Instagram a photo of the spread and ask for your filter preference. Then he’ll start interrogating you about your creative goals and ask if you’ve ever used crowd-funding. That will remind him of a zine he successfully funded, and he’ll turn it back to him.

He’ll be full after his pint and a few bites of the tempeh, so he’ll ask the photographer waitress to add his scraps to the compost out back. When she looks confused, he’s going to ask what else the café feed its chickens. She’ll be embarrassed by its lack of poultry, but he’ll assure her, with a wink, that he’ll look into the area's chicken ordinances. He’ll laugh at the incident and tell you about a chicken coop he once visited on a rooftop, in Bushwick. That will remind him of the farmers’ market, and he’ll want to leave right away.

Before heading out, he’s probably going to order a cup of the organic breakfast blend, to go. And chances are that if he gets a cup of coffee, he’s going to want a kale chip to go along with it.