Day three hint: my big secret has nothing to do with the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa, Amelia Earhart, or that kid from the Oscar Meyer ad ("My bologna has a first name...").
Tosha and I needed chips today, so we headed out on a mission to obtain deep fried potato products. There's a new hotel right by the office with a brasserie that happens to serve club sandwiches. Now there's something you don't see in this country every day. In fact, I've never seen club sandwiches on a menu in this country fullstop. They also have waffles and banana splits, so along with the extremely attentive service (how many people can ask if your meal is alright? Answer: approximately 4), it was like being in a restaurant back home. Except the place was full of English people and we paid in pounds.
I had a dream last night that I was working in Hell's Kitchen with Gordon Ramsay. Maybe I should stop eating ice cream right before bed.