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Praising My Lack Of A Straw

There is no experience quite so disappointing as going to a Waffle House, normally one of the fastest diners on the planet, only to discover that the fry cook working is, in fact, the slowest cook on the face of the planet. It took half an hour to get our food. We actually switched it to go after fifteen minutes, in some vain hope it might speed things up. Silly me. When the cook is busy making certain the plate is straight on the counter instead of, say, cooking, then nothing helps.

Also, there is nothing quite so disconcerting as taking the lid off a drink cup you thought held iced tea, only to learn it was actually filled with grits.

Reading: The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs and At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances, the two sequels to Alexander McCall Smith's earlier Portuguese Irregular Verbs. But those were quick, and so currently it's Peter S. Beagle's A Fine and Private Place.