I live above a Peruvian restaurant. Not a lot of bad things about that (except the exhaust fan on Saturday mornings) and if I run out of food–hey, food downstairs.
A few weeks ago we went there to check the place out and say hi. I got pescado frito. You know, old school.
Anyway, we finished up and I’m at the register paying. There are these deserts with two soft, round, floury, sugary bits with a chocolate creme filling. Here’s the conversation:
Me: And could I get one of those.
Me: And what are they called?
I think I was swallowing my pride for much longer than I was swallowing the cookie.