I’d like a red brownie, please.
It’s happened again.
The other day we opted for the National Aquarium in Qawra for our morning stimulant, much-needed by the magrelinha because, as she put it, she was feeling very tartaruga (tortoise-like). Her eyes were still pillows so a dose of cappuccino would help fluff some freshness into them very nicely. Besides, this place is flooded with light falling in through the floor-to-ceiling glass panels; the eyelids, sleep’s blinds, would be well and truly drawn up.
Today, my taste buds were yearning for a chocolate brownie, which, when the waitress asked for our order, I simply called “brownie”. “Chocolate brownie?”, she queried, as her pen hovered hesitatingly millimetres away from the notebook. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve yet to come across a strawberry brownie, or a vanilla brownie, or one of any other flavour. It’s not like I was ordering ice-cream. I guess another reason it’s called brownie…
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