At the overpriced Mexican restaurant run by a white guy who’d spent three months in Oaxaca, we took complimentary shots of mezcal while waiting for tamales. It’d been a particularly rough morning in the content review queue, and I was feeling grateful for Noma. Since she’d come to work with us, she helped another part of me, one I tucked away at work, come out of hiding. “I feel more dimensional around you,” I said, which made her spit out her mezcal.