The sounds of a Saturday morning breakfast crowd filled the small diner. Modeled to resemble the roadside dives of yesteryear, the place was certainly popular and maintained a loyal cohort of regulars.
“What did you order?”
“The usual — sentient blueberry pancakes.”
She looked away in disgust. Not all aspects of these weekly meetings were old–fashioned.
“What? They’re practically dead before coming off the skillet.”
He was probably correct, but she found the practice barbaric.
“I just don’t understand how you enjoy that.”
“I love the taste of fear. What can I say?”
Foodies in the 23rd century are weird.