I was having dinner at Machne Yuda, that was recommended to me as one of the best places to eat in Jerusalem (although I liked Chakra much better), and I was sitting at the bar, cramped between the French gay couple and the drunk Israeli lady with the huge boyfriend.
At the same time that I got my dessert, the lady with the huge boyfriend stood up to leave and, with remarkable swiftness for a drunk lady, took a piece of my cake asking, while she was already doing so, if she could try it.
Now, between the fact of the ground that a piece of my cake was already on her fork, the size of the boyfriend, the fate of the last people who tried to fight with the Israeli about what is whose and, really, haven’t the Jewish people suffered enough already?, the only logical thing to say was, sure, help yourself.
A little bit later, the bartender presented me with another (different) dessert. “This is on the house,” the bartender said, “I saw what she did, and it wasn’t right.”
The second dessert was better.