My Mother was fussing as usual, turning a family meal out into a fiasco, because the Greek Restaurant’d had the audacity to call its meals Greek things.
“What do you think this is?” she asked, poking at something on the Menu.
“I don’t know, it’s all Greek to me!” I joked pathetically. I tend to just order things and hope for the best, I mean the Menu roughly described each item in any case.
My Mother signaled to a waiter, who walked over slowly. He was olive-skinned and tall, with high cheek-bones and thick black wavy hair, the top two buttons on his starched white shirt were undone. He stood silently observing my Mother. She tipped the Menu in his direction and jabbed at the item again…
“Is this hot?” she asked. The waiter flared his nostrils and frowned slightly, looking quizzical. My Mother gave a bad-tempered sigh, shook her head and used the well-worn British approach to international misunderstandings.
“EEEES THEEIIISS ‘OOOTTT?” She shouted, in her finest pigeon English. The waiter’s face remained poker perfect…
“Do you mean heated or pungent madam?” he asked, in the most perfect, cut-glass English accent I have ever heard.
I had to stuff my napkin in my mouth when I saw the look on her face.