An era or three ago, I received a call from an undergrad’s uncle, who was ringing from a landline in Bucharest. I’d met his nephew, a slender bookish history major, on a ride up to Devon Street for chaat, the month prior. (Gucci loafers, a dirty ochre kanken, tortoise shell Lindberg with octagonal lenses.) His friends were all riding carbon road bikes, while he pottered along on his vintage Schwinn Varsity.

“I’d like to send him a gift card…” his uncle began, “so that he might purchase a modern bike in order to ride with his friends.”

“But he did just fine!” I protested.

“Well, I’m sure he had a nice time, and he told me as much when we last spoke… but I’d really like him to have something light and modern and efficient.”

The line was a bit buzzy, and I didn’t want to waste the uncle’s time, but in that moment, there wasn’t a process in place to sell a gift card. I thought about the boy’s Gucci loafers scraping against the Schwinn’s rusty pedals, and I thought about his eyes when the plates of pani puri and idli and a huge steaming masala dosa arrived at the table, and I thought about how neither he nor his friends really noticed their respective bicycles, or their differences, at all.

“Sure, no problem.” I said, and I took his information, and we figured it out.

A few weeks later, the boy rolled up to the shop on his Varsity. He wasn’t all that surprised when I informed him of the uncle’s gift, or the amount. “How many slices of Bang Bang pie do you think this would cover?” he asked.

“About 500, give or take.” I said.

“Great, in that case why don’t you just give away 500 slices, then. The Schwinn is fine… well, wait. Actually…” he paused, and looked at his fifty year old bike. “Actually, I need some new tires, so let’s use it for a pair of tires and whatever’s left… you know, give away some pie.”

That was the first and last Tamago gift card, many years ago. Let’s hope that future exchanges prove to be as interesting.