Tongue Sandwich

Famished from my lengthy hike across the Moorlands, I was happy to stumble upon the small inn and stop an hour for a bite to eat and a pint of ale. It was my first time backpacking the length of Great Britain and I was eager to enjoy every experience the country had to offer.

After studying the menu board above the bar, I asked the pretty, little waitress for a tongue sandwich and a Guinness. She smiled without showing her teeth, nodded and disappeared through the side-doors into the kitchen area.

The barkeeper, a hard-looking older gent with a scruffy white beard, brought me my drink without a word. Shortly afterwards the same petite waitress returned with my order, placing it in front of me.

Thanking her, I took a bite of my sandwich and decided that aside from it’s unappealing name, a tongue sandwich and a Guinness were a good epicurean match. Then I thought, “Folks sure don’t talk much in these parts.”