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Like a bull tormented by the scarlet rustle of a bullfighter's cape, I lost my head and grabbed a spoon and took a healthy bite of the smooth, cold custard. It was so divine that I didn't notice that I had spilled a trail of caramel sauce down the front of my sweater. I looked ridiculous, but sometimes it's the restaurant's customers, not its owners, who behave as if they're in a sitcom.
Call me Charlie Mertz and pass the flan.
