In Philadelphia there is a counter where you have exactly three seconds to justify your existence. The man behind the glass had a voice forged in gravel. He pointed a metal spatula at my chest. NEXT! WHAT CHEESE? I blinked. Whiz, I said. WIT OR WITOUT? The line behind me held its breath. Forty hungry men stared at the back of my neck. I did not know what this meant. But in eight hundred years of family history, no man of my blood has ever admitted to lacking wit. I refused to stand on American soil and declare myself witless. I drew myself up. I AM WIT, I told him. I WILL ALWAYS BE WIT. The man did not even pause. He slammed the flat-top with his spatula and roared into the back: WE GOT A WIT! HE STANDS ON BUSINESS! THROW ONIONS AT THE PHILOSOPHER! The kitchen exploded. YES CHEF! WIT COMING DOWN! A roll was torn open. Beef was piled like a collapsing hillside. Golden cheese ran like molten iron, and grilled onions were scattered across the summit like victory flags. He shoved it across the metal ledge. EAT IT WITH WIT, PROFESSOR. I ate it on the curb. Juice ran down my forearms to my elbows. It was glorious. I walked past the window twenty minutes later. He looked out and nodded once. STILL WIT, BUDDY? STILL WIT, I shouted back.