Every morning, she dropped by her family's restaurant and asked one of the employees, Mirta Feliciano, to cook her something special: scrambled eggs, well done, with ketchup; a glass of orange juice; and a piece of cold bread.
On the strength of the panzanella (a cold bread salad with tomatoes and roasted peppers), the eggplant parmigiana and an antipasti spread of eggplant, asparagus, peppers and the like, I'm tempted to say that Da Silvano offers safe passage to anyone who maintains vegetal bearings.
The meals were things like slices of cheese on cold bread.
Sex, work, TV, the spreading of cold butter on cold bread – all disrupted by the balloon.
Courgettes, burned and soggy, cold potatoes, stale bread, and for this I was charged 45 francs.
When he tried to refuse, his first meal of the day, a plate of cold, dry meat and stale bread, was taken away from him.
The food was a few platters of cold cuts, bread rolls and a salad.
I stood behind her in line at the fishmonger's counter, my own cart bulging with Cheerios, two gallons of milk, laundry soap, instant mac and cheese, chicken breasts, cold cuts, bread, mayonnaise, apples, bananas, green beans, all the flabby embarrassments of motherhood that no longer embarrass me.
They were grabbing tuna fish, water and bread, cold cuts and milk.
We each bought a coffee and the barman, José, brought us over some cold meat and bread free of charge.
In Europe, he warned, tactfully, "Throughout our trip, breakfast will rarely be more than bread, cold ham, milk, and coffee".
