Gus: 'It tastes like...' Me: 'Food.' Gus: 'Yes, precisely. It tastes like food, excellently prepared. But it does not taste, how do I put this delicately...?' Me: 'It does not taste like God Himself cooked heaven into a series of five dishes which were then served to you accompanied by several luminous balls of fermented, bubbly plasma while actual and literal flower petals floated down around your canal-side dinner table.' Gus: 'Nicely phrased.' Gus's father: 'Our children are weird.' My dad: 'Nicely phrased.'