Gus: "It tastes like. . . " Me: "Food. " Gus: "Yes, precisely. It tastes like food, excellently prepared. But it does not taste, how do I put this delicately. . . ?" Me: "It does not taste like God Himself cooked heaven into a series of five dishes which were then served to you accompanied by several luminous balls of fermented, bubbly plasma while actual and literal flower petals floated down around your canal-side dinner table. " Gus: "Nicely phrased. " Gus's father: "Our children are weird. " My dad: "Nicely phrased. "
Fortune or fame, you must pick one or the other, though neither of them are to be what they claim.