Chapter 275: This coffee tastes like mud

The waitress approaches our table. Grandmother places her order. That helps me decide what to order.  There is a law against both of us ordering the same thing.

 

I love to ask the staff, “What do you recommend?”

 

I love staff who are proud of and love talking about their food and love saying what they like. I love it when they have an opinion. When they are personally involved. When they say what they have for morning tea.  When I was a dentist, I loved people who asked me: What do you do? Tell me how you look after your own teeth.

 

The waitress skips away with the precious information. She will tell others what we told her.

 

We sit and I fiddle with the salt and sugar. Sugar is pourable. Not cubes.  Table has a number. On the walls are landscape pictures and photos of food and food instruments. 

 

Another difficult decision has arisen. What do we talk about? Around us the talk is continuous. Every table talks. We can’t sit quietly the way we do at home. That would create a bad impression. I have to create a good impression. The impression that I am enjoying myself. If I am talking then I am enjoying myself.

 

Why is my regular coffee an espresso? Who decided I was an espresso person? How did grandmother decide she was a skinny cappuccino? 

Where did these names come from?

I remember the day in South Africa I asked for a long black. The look I received told me not to order a short black or a long black.

 

I can’t say the old coffee joke. Grandmother has already heard it. Many times.

 

This coffee tastes like mud.

That’s because it was only just ground.