A Nightmare on Food Street


The grocery store terrifies me.

Okay, so there are no razor-edged grocery carts or zombies lurking near the freezer section. But there’s so much potential for error.

Take the meat counter. I skulk around for a bit and practice my order a few times in my head. “I would like half a kilogram of chicken,” I say in Serbian, staring the meat guy down in hopes he won’t hear my dastardly accent.

He swallows the small smile he can’t keep from appearing on his face and starts loading chicken on the scale. I think maybe I fooled him, but then it comes: “Your Serbian is great!”

I swear, this applies if I am saying one word or reciting the declaration of independence (of Serbia, obviously). I could butcher my sentence and these people would kindly praise my language skills.

Thankfully there are no follow-up questions (which I pretty much never understand), so I take my…

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