“Did you know espresso is Italian?”
I stared blankly at my inquisitor. I was a captive audience, waiting in line for coffee beans on Bleecker Street. Before I could muster up a response, he continued.
“Cappuccino is Italian too. And you see that?” He pointed at the shelf behind me.
“You know what Bialetti is?”
“Yes, Bialetti is Italian,” I finally got a word in.
“It’s Italian! And you know Japan is our ally now, but we hit them with the atom bomb.”
He wandered off, then. Thankfully. I was able to get my coffee and depart, but he’d wandered to the back of the shop—I heard him talking baseball to a British grandma as I headed out to the PATH.
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