If you are what you eat, then:

I am a towering temple to decadence, all European coffees and pastries with eggs, meats and cheeses.

The ancient woman sitting next to me is an icy little igloo surrounded by a moat of half and half, her coffee having run dry before I arrived.

The pretty girl at the counter is a busy country inn, taking and providing bites of fruit and potatoes without the time to really enjoy doing either.

And the man that made the shirt I’m wearing is a little statue of rice and vegetables with a mortar of coconut milk.  And he is rebuilding himself right now, five thousand miles away.

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