It’s Monday afternoon and we are eating meatbags for lunch. This is because we are in Brisbane and have a German visitor. This German visitor has only been in Australia once before, in Melbourne for two weeks last year, during which visit I made him eat a meat pie from the local 7-11. Bad move. He got their name mixed up and months later, when I was marveling at the disgustingness of a German breakfast staple known as ‘builders’ marmelade’ (raw mince and chopped onions eaten on a bread roll), he burst out, “But what about those disgusting Australian meatbags?” Today it was time to reconstitute our culinary reputation, much as oranges will be reconstituted to make what we call fresh orange juice. We went to the local bakery. Standing in front was a line of people who amply illustrated what a lifetime of bakery products will do to your body. They were all having long, yarning conversations with the girls behind the counter, it was evident they all queue there every week. We got our pies and sat down to eat them in the shady courtyard. Afterwards my German visitor said, I feel like drinking a cacao. I said, a chocolate milk? Excellent notion, it will degrease our gullets. We took our chocolate milks across the parking lot and started towards home. Then my mother and father turned up. They too had decided it was time for a meatbag lunch for everyone and in addition they were hunting down a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald so that their sensitive liberal visitors would not have to suffer through The Australian every morning. For some reason the German visitor could not be persuaded to eat a second meatbag. “Maybe he’s full,” said Mum.