“I haven’t tried olives,” he said, looking dubiously at the bowl of glistening green she held toward him. “What do they taste like?”
“Let’s see…they tantalise like a riverside lunch in a Berber village in the Atlas Mountains, they're sunset magic in Santorini and exotic as the Marrakesh Medina. They are dark and mysterious like the Souk in Istanbul, and they are aromatic and crisp like chilled Prosecco in Venice. That’s what olives taste like.”
He took one, bit cautiously. “Ppftt,” he said, spitting like a cobra, “it’s revolting. It’s just salt.”