The cry was plaintive and piercing, “There’s no Worcestershire sauce.”
Not this again, please no! “Darling, I explained already. They eat different food.”
The image of the frozen smile on the waiter’s face endured. When Sam had adopted the slow monotone he believed allowed foreigners to understand English and said, “No spaghetti. Fish-and-chips, comprenday?”
“Do it to be annoying, don’t they? Like pretending they don’t speak English. I mean, they have their word for bread, right? But how do they learn it without knowing ‘bread’ first? Eh, tell me that.”
He snapped his fingers. “Garçon!”
I sank into the shadows.