Maxwell and I went to lunch at the Horse Brass, one of those Portland institutions that I could never quite understand. 

Maxwell likes pot pies, and Shepard's pie and fish and chips. 

I blame his anglophile tastes on his father, but whatever the source he has them and if you slap a crust on gravy he is in.

I am not such a big fan of British food, and only went to humor him. 

I ordered a salad, which in retrospect was probably a mistake.  The lettuce was the dark green outer leaves that you generally throw away.  They were limp and looked like something you would feed a pet turtle. 

You could collect your salad trimmings all week for Timmy the Turtle and pile it on a plate, and it would look exactly like the salad I paid $9.00 for.