Alien Food
Using the “fork” – the mini-trident-like utensil – alongside my eating knife is the compromise that I and Atlanta have reached, at long last.
Only after our stomachs have made themselves known vociferously, and she realises that we have attracted curious and disapproving eyes.
Well, at least I can eat, now. And the fish is… good enough for my palate, complemented by its thin, sweet-sour sauce.
The fowl is thin and stringy, but the thick sweet-savoury sauce that coats it makes up for it, although it does not reach deep into the meat.
Both go well with my choice of drink, and I am satisfied with this experience.
Except that I am still hungry. The fish and fowl looked larger and fuller in the pictures!
Eh, Atlanta still has half of her meal – `Only one dish?` – left, and she seems unable to finish it, somehow. Should I… help…?
I look up, intending to ask, desperate to sate my hunger and – hopefully – decrease my seiðr-depletion-born fatigue.
My eyes meet her astonished ones, which often flicker towards my finished platters.
And then she orders me a bowl of the worm-like food.
She grins at my bug-eyed stare. “New place. New food,” she signs.
`Damn.`