As if.
“Baked beans and toast,” I told him smartly.
“Toad in the hole,” Fred shot back, the light of challenge in his eye.
“Fresh kippers—”
“Scotch eggs—”
“—deviled kidneys—”
“—faggot—”
“—bubble and squeak—”
“—crumpets!” Fred said, starting to look a little worried.
I grinned, because Pritkin was Welsh, and the Welsh eat scary, scary things. “Laver bread,” I said smugly. Nothing like seaweed first thing in the morning.
“Marmite!”
“Kedgeree—”
“Pancakes!”
“Pancakes are American.”
“Shit, shit!”
“Give up?”
“No! No, I—”
“Ticktock, Fred.”
“Marag freaking Dubh!” Fred said, looking desperate.
And then hopeful, when I hesitated.
And then laughed in his face. “—and fried potatoes!”
“Bullshit!” Fred pointed at me. “Bullshit!”
“What?”
“We already said that!”
“We did not.”
“Yes, we did! We must have! You don’t get to win on fried potatoes!”
“Mmm. Fried potatoes.” I rubbed it in.
“Bullshit!”
“Fried potatoes do not count as a vegetable!” Rhea snapped.
And then suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth, in the realization that she had just yelled at the Pythia. She stared at me for a split second, in something approaching horror, and then ran out of the room. I sighed.