It was a humble frite that got me thinking.

Sitting in a small taverna that was a family home on the outskirts of a tiny village in the mountains, my nephew managed to order a few items and the local wine from the warm hearted grandmother who owned the place.

The TV was in the next room, showing members of the Golden Prawn being bustled in and out of courts, the grandfather poked his head out of the kitchen, made a grimace and retreated back to the stove.

There was nobody else around.

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