We had already ordered our lunch when at least twenty people invaded several neighboring tables. As we learned soon enough, the extended family was celebrating two birthdays—one of a grandson and another of a grandfather. The grandson’s age was predictable enough. He is only one year old. But we were stunned by the grandfather’s age. He is only sixty-five, a year my junior. To me, he looked between seventy-five and eighty. And I am being generous. Bald, flabby, and stopped, he could hardly move. And then his wife barged into the limelight with all sorts of family greetings, which she read aloud for everyone to hear. In her early sixties, she looked like a potato woman. Her hair died pitch-black, she wore something reminiscent of a potato sack. Her short, bent legs completed the picture. If I were in her husband’s place, I would look between seventy-five and eighty in just a few months. Better still, the police would be searching for me for cold-blooded murder. Nay, execution of the potato woman.