In a South Bondi beachfront cafe, I overheard a man in a shiny suit and with slicked-back hair ask for camel’s milk. The French waitress leant closer.

“Carmille?” she asked.

“Camel,” he clarified. “C-A-M-E-L.”

“Sorry, what is this?”

The man put down the Wall Street Journal and, ignoring the waitress, whistled at the manager. He then, upon claiming the manager's attention, used an index finger to summon her over.

The manager, who was clearing a table, rushed over and stared at the waitress as if to ask telepathically, "What's the matter?" The waitress then shrugged at the manager as if to say, "I don't know what he's on about?"

“Excuse me," the man blurted. "I was just asking your worker here whether you served camel’s milk?”

“We only serve what comes out of a cow, sir," the manager said. "And soy. Bonsoy.”

The man scoffed at that, slicking back a fallen strand of hair. “Well, just a long black then,” he sneered and looked back down to the paper like the manager was the one who should’ve been embarrassed.

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