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...easy for you to say.
And with that snappy retort, I spun on my heel to make a dramatic exit...except that I tripped on the rug, stumbled headlong into the waiter, upsetting his tray of martinis & then
time went all slow-mo and Dame May Whitty caught me as I fell. "Never mind about shaken or stirred, dear," she advised before humming a tune into my ear. She vanished as I re
gurgitated my dinner into a bowl and held it out for her. Apparently Dame May Whitty isn't fond of predigested cuisine. It is an acquired taste, but it is currently all the rage in
select Michelin starred restaurants in disputed border territiories of Europe like Catalonia or the Balkans. When I regurgitated my Oeufs a la Bonne Femme onto her lap, Dame Whitty
mistook this for a local custom, and graciously threw up on my lap in response. Dame Whitty was nothing if not gracious. Just then a nearby waiter tripped and fell, spilling his
soup all over Dame Whitty. She remained calm. "I hear,: she said wiping soup off her face, "that soup bathes are good for the skin." I couldn't bare her politeness. "Waiter how cou
ld you give Dame Whitty a soup facial when we are clearly waiting for our first course?" I shouted at the waiter, who was fairly dancing with apologies. He ran back to the kitchen
like the floor was lava and his ass was about to catch fire. He returned with the first course promptly. According to the syllabus it was Dictatorship for Dummies 101. "Dig in."

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