An Iraqi guy I used to study with invited me and my wife over for dinner. You wouldn’t believe the excitement; he just couldn’t wait to feed us.
“That sounds great,” I said, in reply to his invitation, “but, just to let you know, my wife has some allergies.” I wasn’t sure what Iraqi food might contain. My wife is lactose intolerant, a celiac, and mildly hyperglycaemic. I explained these conditions to my friend.
“Are these really things?” he asked, slightly baffled by the idea. I play cultural pranks on him from time to time.
“I’m serious,” I said, firmly. “It’s such a pain in the arse. I haven’t had a decent meal in years.”
“I don’t believe it.” He shook his head. “Only here. If you pull that crap in my country, you don’t eat.”
“That sounds great,” I said, in reply to his invitation, “but, just to let you know, my wife has some allergies.” I wasn’t sure what Iraqi food might contain. My wife is lactose intolerant, a celiac, and mildly hyperglycaemic. I explained these conditions to my friend.
“Are these really things?” he asked, slightly baffled by the idea. I play cultural pranks on him from time to time.
“I’m serious,” I said, firmly. “It’s such a pain in the arse. I haven’t had a decent meal in years.”
“I don’t believe it.” He shook his head. “Only here. If you pull that crap in my country, you don’t eat.”