Gudmund Gudmundsen returns to the table with a plastic tray loaded with El Maco salsa burgers, laksewraps (fried salmon rolled in something like a taco), chili-cheese tops, what looks like deep-fried cream cheese stars, a side of carrots, and two beers.
I’m dressed in shorts and a windbreaker, hustling through the street entrance, quickly scanning the room to join Gudmundsen. “Sorry I’m late,” I say. I cast a dubious glance at the tray.