Call it bad renter's karma: Last week, I moved apartments for the fifth time in four years. For each of these moves—except for when the New York City Department of Buildings declared my Union Square loft structurally unsound and my landlord hired movers for me—I called on friends to help. This time around, I called Mary's Man with a Van on advice from two friends who said they were barebones but reliable. What they failed to tell me was that the movers were food-obsessed. While waiting for a third mover to arrive, I joined them for lunch (at a pizza joint down my block) while they steered the conversation from the olive oil gelato at Otto and the offal tasting menu at Babbo to the truffled egg toast at 'ino (there was fist-pounding-on-the-table action here)–exactly my kind of movers.