"Here you are, Madame," the man said politely, sliding a dish of olives in front of one Irene Adler. She smiled at the man's heavy Greek accent and thanked him for the food. She popped one in her mouth and began to chew.
"Something wrong, miss?" asked the man, his brow furrowing as he watched Irene Adler's change in expression. "There are no olives better than these here in the Cyclades; I guarantee it! There can't be anything wrong with the taste," he declared. "What does it taste like?"
"Sherlock Holmes." The words had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. The man simply looked confused before shaking his head, as if deciding to ignore the odd comment. Adler blushed in embarrassment.
But not Spain wasn't looking as attractive as before. Maybe she wouldn't make that her next destination, after all. London was quite beautiful this time of year, anyway, she reasoned.
…"And your favorite - olives from the Cyclades."