Emma Stone is supposed to be sick, but when she rolls up to Cookshop at Tenth Avenue and 20th Street on a recent muggy afternoon, she looks fine. Her nose is a little pinkish, maybe, and her famously raspy voice is a little hoarser than usual, and she's sort of pale and thin, but isn't she always? Then she lets out a gigantic, honking cough. "I feel like I need to eat a little something because I have postnasal drip," she says, clearing her throat. "Not to brag," she adds in a goofy-smarmy voice.
It's a perfect little Emma Stone moment: the spot-on timing, the funny voice, the exhibition of some kind of human frailty that makes you think of her not as a tall, willowy movie star who has made out with Ryan Gosling in not one but two movies but as a normal girl, someone you might like. "The spice-fried hominy is incredibly good," she says. "Just a heads-up. Ooh, do you want to get oysters?”" she asks with great excitement, as though she’s not someone who could have oysters every day, probably shucked by Ryan Gosling, if she wanted. She has a tendency to speak dramatically. Yes! Oysters! "We got them last time," she adds.