The scene is Konitsa, Greece.
Homiletics editor Timothy Merrill and family are seated in a plaza and hope to order some food. The following is in Merrill's own words.
Generally, we had found that people had a smattering of English and usually we could communicate what we wanted. But not in Konitsa, and especially not when we had dinner that evening at an outdoor table in the village square.
A kindly, old gentleman waited on us, appearing from the little dilapidated restaurant on the edge of the square. His face was round and cheeky, and his full mustache was draped over his mouth like a walrus. He wore a dark, food-stained vest over a blousy white shirt. He had a little pad in his hand and a pencil poised to take our order.
The menu was in Greek. And we didn't have a handy-dandy guidebook to explain a thing. We decided on Greek salads, but we wanted only two. We thought the boys could share one, and Jeanie and I could share the other. We didn't want four plates of something we didn't...
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