“Sure,” he said, “but no one has ever given me a weird look for ordering bell pepper.”
“What about if you ask someone in Europe or Australia to leave off the cilantro?”
Miles held up an admonishing finger. “Firstly, I would never ask anyone to leave off the cilantro. Secondly, what the fuck do you call cilantro if it’s not cilantro?”
“Coriander.”
“But coriander is the seed! Cilantro is the leaf.”
“All the same plant though, so we just call it coriander and coriander seed.”
He shook his head with a bemused smile. “Y’all sure like to make things difficult for yourselves.”
It was probably just the beer thinking, but his exasperation was cute, so I gestured to the container of salad on his side of the crowded table. “Pass the rocket.”
“Excuse me?” He followed the direction I was pointing. “The salad?”
“Yeah, the rocket salad.”
Though he picked it up, he held onto it like I had to earn it first. “You mean thearugulasalad?”
“Nah, that green stuff is called rocket.”
His eyes narrowed, as though waiting for some flicker of my expression that would prove I was tricking him. Under such scrutiny, I couldn’t keep a straight face and grinned.
“I knew it,” he said, handing over the container. “You’re just bullshitting me.”
“I’m not, I’m dead serious.”
“Uh huh, sure.”
“Look it up, I’ll wait.”
“I am not typingrocket saladinto my phone. It’s probably some secret Australian euphemism for group sex.”
I had been trying so hard not to laugh, but that was too much and I leaned back against the armchair, laughing until tears came to my eyes and my far too full stomach started to hurt.
“What?” Miles demanded, laughing too. “Tell me I’m wrong. Like an Australian sausage fest.”
“A snag do!”
“A what?” He uncrossed his legs to kick me under the tableand I laughed even harder. “My god, how drunk are you? Are you allergic to beer or something?”
“Fuckin’ maggoted, mate,” I said with my broadest Australian accent. “I’m a two-pot screamer. Not good on the turps.”
Miles shook his head, his grin stretching ear to ear. “Now you’re just speaking a whole different language. Are you done? With the food, I mean. I’m fully expecting the weird Australian thing to keep going.”
“Yeah, I’m finished,” I said once I could draw breath. “Thank you. That was delicious.”
“There’s not some terrible Australian word for that?” he asked, gathering up the leftovers. “Don’t you just add an O to everything? Delisho.”
I froze in the act of snapping the lid back on the salad. “Please never say that again.”
“Why not?” He shot me a wicked grin. “What’s wrong with delisho?”
“Everything.”
With the remains of the meal collected into the containers, Miles shoved them in the fridge and took out the last two beers. “I think I need some of that to settle before we have dessert. Do you want this? Or are you drunk enough?”
