One of our friends is late to breakfast. She calls and tells us to order something for her, anything. We pick out one of those fancy dishes with eggs.
“How do you want the eggs,” the waiter asks. He’s got a melodious middle eastern accent. I could listen to him all day.
But this is difficult. Eggs are something you can get wrong. He’s waiting. Finally, he says, “Is it a man or a woman who’s coming?”
“A woman.”
“A woman? Ok, then it’s poached. You wait, you’ll see. I’m right.”
He was.
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You’ve got the touch. Always.
Splendid stuff.