Today, a light lunch at the restaurant across the road from the hotel of Mezzes: calamari, Greek salad and taramasalata accompanied by crusty bread in a wicker basket. Fanta, a glass of the local Cressi and ice cold bottled water.
Our waiter—dark haired with silvered edges, deposits the bottled water with a glass on the table and says:
'Nero' (water), then he adds with a warning tone, 'but not too much, otherwise you will become rusty inside.'
Amused, I laugh and reply:
'Yes, too much and I will need some olive oil to move again.'
He pauses to take in what I said. Then comprehension slowly crosses his darkly tanned face. With a broad grin—revealing an assortment of teeth and a twinkle in his eye, he wanders off to serve another table tray on hand.
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