Having lunch at Iguana, a little Mexican restaurant in our neighborhood, my brother asked if they sold lemonade.

“Not usually,” the waiter replied, “but today I will have the old man make it for you.”

The old man? We contemplated this pronouncement for a few minutes until, lo and behold, a stooped and wizened old man, who looked to be at least ninety years old, ambled out of the kitchen with glasses and a teapot.

“I have made for you de limonada,” he announced. “Choo has never taste limonada as good as dis in you life.”

And he was right.