The two Frankfurters entered the diner first, followed by the Hamburger, the Berliner and finally the French toast. The thinner of the Frankfurters, bathed in eau de Cologne, considered the German chancellor's stance vis-a-vis the American-Belgian Waffles crisis with the curious detachment of a captain of industry at three removes away from the Munich beer hall putsch of 1923. The fatter of the two Frankfurters, his deliberations consumed, was more than happy to accommodate US-style additions, provided the syrup agreed to be one of his myspace friends. All four had gone Dutch to spite the French toast. Buttered on the untoasted side only, she was actually British and proud of it, no matter how many sprouts Big Brother Brussels left all over the plate.
To scotch the Welsh rabbit's plans, the Danish pastry had saved everyone's bacon by squeezing orangemen till the pips squeaked in each of the Six Counties. As part of a negotiated settlement, the Ulster Fry was to be covered in haricot beans and artificial sweetners. Pound for pound, it was still a full English whichever way your baguette was buttered. The Celtic Tiger roared. He had more important fish to fry: kedgeree for starters, then depleted cod stock and finally skate on a bed of thin ice, topped with a neo-liberal sprinkling of tax breaks for business class customers, all at M3 motorway prices. No self-respecting Pole would touch it with a bhaji.
Meanwhile, Asti Spumante was drinking espresso au terrace with an off-duty cigarette who had been forced alfresco by the frying pan, so the French poodle could give his "Make the Trades Unions Bleed" speech in all major European languages, except English. Tipped off by the waiter, the creme Catalan caught wind of the US subprime market collapse in good time to rake off 8.5 billion Euros for gateaux re-construction in the Black Forest. The Portuguese man-of-war, full of Middle Eastern promise, nevertheless continued to swat the Spanish fly. The cheap Sicilian red, who was never up at this time of day, had spent the night on the bio-diesel with the famous Russian salad, who had got the Venetian Blind drunk and left the Greek cross under the table, totally shished off his kebab, much to the delight of the Turkish coffee, who never ever touched a drop of the Tatar sauce.
The waitress, who wore her hair in a French roll coated in egg and milk (lightly fried), a style more suited to Southern Mediterranean than Nordic tastes, asked in her best dog, "Is there anything more you desire, monsieur?
She was addressing Rex the Dog.
Rex, the biggest canine star of his day, was known as the King of Dogfooding. In the advertising game, he was the dog who always ate the dog food. Rex would never turn up his nose at the product. Back in the day, there was nothing more embarrassing, or costly, on a live TV commercial than the dog not eating its Lassie Chunks. But this really wasn't his cup of tea at all. Even though he'd never been much for sheep herding, he hated wordplay with a passion bordering on collie. It was time he hightailed it. He'd already waited far too long for the waitress to notice him in amongst all the sticky puns.
- I don't suppose you could fetch me a bone and a people bag to go, woofed Rex softly.
As he pushed open the door to leave, a dispute over the provenance of the idiomatic infusion broke out between a couple of inebriated English peers, who had been down and out in Paris, London and other world-renowned European capitals more times than Rex had had dog's dinners. Lord Lipton of Lambeth Walk insisted the brew was rightfully his, while Earl Grey of Essex claimed the oil of Bergamot entitled him not only to possession of the dog's cup of tea, but to full droits de signeur over the waitress too. Pretty soon they were at it like humans. Rex was best off out of it. Pity. He'd been looking forward to that Vienna sausage.
To scotch the Welsh rabbit's plans, the Danish pastry had saved everyone's bacon by squeezing orangemen till the pips squeaked in each of the Six Counties. As part of a negotiated settlement, the Ulster Fry was to be covered in haricot beans and artificial sweetners. Pound for pound, it was still a full English whichever way your baguette was buttered. The Celtic Tiger roared. He had more important fish to fry: kedgeree for starters, then depleted cod stock and finally skate on a bed of thin ice, topped with a neo-liberal sprinkling of tax breaks for business class customers, all at M3 motorway prices. No self-respecting Pole would touch it with a bhaji.
Meanwhile, Asti Spumante was drinking espresso au terrace with an off-duty cigarette who had been forced alfresco by the frying pan, so the French poodle could give his "Make the Trades Unions Bleed" speech in all major European languages, except English. Tipped off by the waiter, the creme Catalan caught wind of the US subprime market collapse in good time to rake off 8.5 billion Euros for gateaux re-construction in the Black Forest. The Portuguese man-of-war, full of Middle Eastern promise, nevertheless continued to swat the Spanish fly. The cheap Sicilian red, who was never up at this time of day, had spent the night on the bio-diesel with the famous Russian salad, who had got the Venetian Blind drunk and left the Greek cross under the table, totally shished off his kebab, much to the delight of the Turkish coffee, who never ever touched a drop of the Tatar sauce.
The waitress, who wore her hair in a French roll coated in egg and milk (lightly fried), a style more suited to Southern Mediterranean than Nordic tastes, asked in her best dog, "Is there anything more you desire, monsieur?
She was addressing Rex the Dog.
Rex, the biggest canine star of his day, was known as the King of Dogfooding. In the advertising game, he was the dog who always ate the dog food. Rex would never turn up his nose at the product. Back in the day, there was nothing more embarrassing, or costly, on a live TV commercial than the dog not eating its Lassie Chunks. But this really wasn't his cup of tea at all. Even though he'd never been much for sheep herding, he hated wordplay with a passion bordering on collie. It was time he hightailed it. He'd already waited far too long for the waitress to notice him in amongst all the sticky puns.
- I don't suppose you could fetch me a bone and a people bag to go, woofed Rex softly.
As he pushed open the door to leave, a dispute over the provenance of the idiomatic infusion broke out between a couple of inebriated English peers, who had been down and out in Paris, London and other world-renowned European capitals more times than Rex had had dog's dinners. Lord Lipton of Lambeth Walk insisted the brew was rightfully his, while Earl Grey of Essex claimed the oil of Bergamot entitled him not only to possession of the dog's cup of tea, but to full droits de signeur over the waitress too. Pretty soon they were at it like humans. Rex was best off out of it. Pity. He'd been looking forward to that Vienna sausage.
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