The “Samira Wake-up” breakfast

One morning, a man in his fifties with a warm, dark face appeared in the doorway of the old diner.  His face is bisected by a bushy moustache atop an irresistible smile.  The man hesitates a few moments then yields to the nutmeg wafting from the oatmeal that had just been served up at the counter.  Apparently this refugee of noble birth is used to more luxurious establishments.  He advances towards the counter, stepping over old Sarto's cane to get there.  He watches the pancakes being moved around on the large cooktop with military precision for a moment, then asks:
- Fruit… if possible fresh, please, Miss.
- Fresh!, retorts Marie, as if she'd found a tarantula in the sugar bowl.  Heavens, sir!  Fresh is all we have.  How could you not know that?

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