Fictionlet
“So,” said Alex, “where is this mysterious lunch place?”
“Just up ahead,” replied Greg. “You’ll like it.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘The Pit.'”
“‘The Pit?'”
“‘The Pit.'”
“Cheery name. What is it, barbeque?”
“Olives.”
Alex shook his head momentarily. “Olives?”
“Yes indeed, old scout. ‘The Pit’ is that newest and trendiest of places, an Olive Bar. They have soups and salads and sandwiches and all that, but their showpiece is a long bar containing heaping piles of every kind of olive known to man. Black olives, green olives, oil-cured, water-cured, brine-cured, dry-cured, and lye-cured. Whole olives. Stuffed olives. Stuffed olives with pimento. Stuffed olives with jalapeño. Stuffed olives with anchovy. Stuffed olives with capers. Manzanilla! Picholine! Kalamata! Niçoise! More olives than you could shake a stick at — even a very large stick! For an olive-hound like you, it’ll be paradise.”
“Who’s an olive-hound?” said Alex, apparently rocked to the core.
“You are,” replied Greg, “if the way you were putting them away that time at OneTrueCon is any indication.”
“I was only ‘putting them away’ as you put it because I’d gotten lost in the Dealer Room and hadn’t been able to find the exit until well after dinner time — and olives were all that stupid bar had to eat! Ever since then, I can’t stand the damn things! Jeeze!”
“Oh,” said Greg, eyebrows slightly raised. “So … this isn’t what you’d call a ‘thrilling surprise.'”
“No,” said Alex. “The idea is turning my stomach.”
“Ah,” said Greg again, and exhaled awkwardly as Alex stewed. Finally, Greg hazarded, “Well, they also have pizza.”
“Oh. All right then,” said Alex, and off they went.
-The Gneech
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