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“Death Café?” the hostess asked. “Third floor.”
Had I been in a Thomas Pynchon novel, this scenario would have undoubtedly been the start of a postmodern adventure. But even in Shilla, a Korean barbecue restaurant in the very real surroundings of midtown Manhattan, I was skeptical that the Death Café I RSVPed for wasn’t the stuff of fiction.
I followed another woman up the stairs, which led into a main dining room. About 15 other people were already seated at tables in groups of four, sipping tea and chatting. I ended up at a table with the woman I followed inside, whose name was Kathryn McKinney. Making small talk, we asked each other about what brought us to the cafe. She told me she had lost her brother, unexpectedly, a month earlier and her mother eight years prior to cancer. I was immediately embarrassed by…
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James' World 2 
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