It’s one of our favourite places to eat. Back in the days when we were young and child-free, we lived in an apartment directly above the restaurant and would head down there whenever we wanted a sweet treat. But it had been a while.
“What are you going to have?” my husband asked me.
I considered for a moment. “I haven’t decided. I’m weighing up between the Spanish Churros with Hot Caramel Dipping Sauce and the White Chocolate Raspberry Brioche Dumplings. What about you?”
“I’m having the Berry Deluxe Sundae.”
I froze, then looked at him. “Wait. What?”
“The Berry Sundae.”
I stared at him a minute. “So… We’re at a dessert bar and I’m trying to choose between having warm spanish churros served with hot caramel dipping sauce and vanilla bean ice cream, or three brioche dumplings served with fresh raspberries, warm white chocolate dipping sauce and vanilla bean ice cream, and you’re having a sundae?”
“A deluxe sundae,” he said proudly.
“Don’t you want something a little more… I don’t know… interesting?”
“It is interesting,” he insisted. “Look, it’s got two flavours of ice cream! And berries! And cream! And a chocolate sail!”
“It’s a sundae.”
He looked at me a minute. “You’re one of those militantly indie chicks, aren’t you?”
“What? What does that even mean?”
“It means you only listen to the indie/alternative music radio station or nothing at all. You won’t ever listen to mainstream radio, even though you secretly like some of the Top 40 stuff, because it’s not indie enough for you.”
“… So… What’s your point?”
The waiter arrived and we ordered.
I had the Churros.
My husband had the Sundae. (Sorry — the Deluxe Sundae.)
And then we went to a bar where I loudly declaimed the mainstream music (even though I knew all the words) and sang exuberantly when the band played something retro-chic or alternative.