The restaurant server introduced herself, brought water with lemon, and described the specials. Now it was time to order.

When it was my turn (I like to go last), I ordered the lamb. After scanning the menu, I always order lamb.

"You want your potatoes mashed, fries, or baked?" she asked.

"I love mashed potatoes," I said. "But only if they're real … not powdered. Could you tell me if …"

"I'm not supposed to tell you that," she responded. "Rules."

Instantly I felt challenged.

"Let's you and me think about this," I said. "What if we were all—and we actually could be—your very best friends. Then do you think you'd tell me if the potatoes are real or not?"

"Yeah, I probably would," she said. "Hmmm … here's what I'll do for you. I'll just whisper this once." And she lowered her voice. "I've worked here for four years. I've never, ever, seen any potato peelings on the floor."

I ordered the baked potato.

I noted this conversation in my journal the next morning. Something ...