On the way to Dubai to visit Nduku’s sister and her family, we had a quick layover at Heathrow in London, England [or is it the UK? Or Great Britain?]. We grabbed breakfast at a place called Giraffe, which as pretty cool. Our waitress reminded me of Minnie Driver, part her look, part her accent.
I have no idea what time it was at the airport or inside my head, but whatever was on the menu just didn’t seem to be what I wanted. Everything sounded fancy. So I asked if I could just get some scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon. Of course they didn’t have Mountain Dew so I settled for water.
While we waited, the waitress brought out some Giraffes, naturally it being the name of the place.
And just as my eyelids were convinced it wasn’t the middle of the night and stayed open, the food arrived. Why did I think that everyone knew cheese in my eggs meant American cheese? Though it wasn’t as gooey as I like my eggs with cheese, it was quite good. Only there was a huge sausage on my plate and I’m a bacon man.
Minnie Driver apologized, so politely, and came back almost immediately with what appeared to me as another failure to communicate. She brought me back a plate of sliced ham. Nduku saw my face as I was about clarify what I had been trying to order for breakfast then said she was about to warn me that bacon to Americans and bacon to the rest of the world isn’t quite the same. That slice of ham was bacon.
What in the bloody hell!?