We've been insulted.

Ha, Arthur Bryant's Kansas City.  I've been to the original, uh, nice location.

Once, while driving a school bus, I listened to a couple of Middle Schooler's arguing about whether we fought the Australians in WWII. 

Thomas Hudson lay on the floor of the big bedroom, that looked so much like a cabin on the old Normandy, and felt the cold wind coming under the door where the grass mat had been bent away.

He often slept on the floor, the first night ashore, because he could not stand the rolling of the bed.

He felt the roughness of the woven grass mat, and felt the pressure of the large cat that lay beside him and that was rubbing against him.  The cat's name, now, was Boy.  Once it had been Boise, named after the Cruiser, but now it was just Boy.

Hudson pushed the cat hard with his hand, for Boy loved to be rubbed or patted just like a dog, and said "Where's the Egg, Boy, where's the Egg."  The cat erupted in loud, lion like purring.

Hudson remembered that night, when he had had so many of the sea foam green drinks at the Gordito; the fine drinks with local rum, and lime, and no sugar at all, and which looked like the phosphorescence of the sea, and stumbling home had first said to Boy, "Where's the Egg."

Hudson had been hungry and could not sleep, and he and Boy had found the Egg, and had made wings.

Afterwards, as Hudson slept on this same floor, Boy had laid beside him, drunk with the rich smell of rum and wing sauce.

Big Green Eggs in the Stream, Part 2, Cuba, Ernest Eggingway