“There’s a YPF coming up. Bank left,” Theresa said.

I followed her directions, and turned the cab towards where the computer was saying there was a YPF aerial island.

“Ooh – according to the readout, this YPF has a churro stand in it.”

I made a face. “Probably some greasy, corporate version of churros. Nowhere near the real thing.”

“We can at least try some while we’re there…”

“And it’s probably not even real sugar…”

“Who can afford real sugar these days?” Theresa asked.

I sighed and continued past the flying buoy, which made an “AAHOOOGA!” noise as we passed by.

A short commercial flashed onto one side monitor. Dancing churros sticks came across the screen. “Churros, churros, churros! You have to try a churro! Churros, churros, churros! Try some here today – Hey!” went the jingle.

“Guess we’re trying a churro today,” I said.

#   #  #

The YPF was nothing fancy – a typical aerial island featuring a fueling station (Hydrogen was now 456 credits, I saw; Helium was 687 credits.) There was a typical YPF store, which contained the usual YPF brands — YPF brand potato chips, YPF sodas, YPF bottled water, YPF chewing gum; even YPF facial tissues and YPF sanitary products.

But outside, beneath the YPF structure, was a small rectangular structure – probably a converted storage unit. Beneath that were two tanks, probably to hold a)propane and b)cooking oil.

“Now that doesn’t look official,” I muttered.

“Stop being such a gristle, Mom,” Theresa said.

I flew our modified Vite Esprit to the Hydrogen pump. The mechanized arm found the hydrogen port and began to fill it up, once I had swiped my YPF card. (It pays to have a YPF card – I was ten thousand points away from a free tank of hydrogen.)

“Ask if the churro stand is open, Mom,” Theresa said.

An actual human voice cut in our ship’s speakers. “May I take your order?” (It wasn’t exactly Standard – the computer had to translate from the Euro-Indian-Russian-Native American dialect that was popular in this part of the colony.)

“What kind of churros do you have?” Theresa asked.

“Uhm, we have American style, with the cinnamon sugars…uhm,  we have the Spanish style, which is the porra, which comes with hot theobroma… uhm, we have the Youtiao with the congee…”

“I’ll have Porra,” Theresa said, “with theobroma, please.”

“I’ll take American style,” I said.

“Do you want to add that onto your fuel bill or pay separately?”

“Eh, we’ll add it to the bill,” I said. It was almost time for our mandatory break.

“Please fly down to the window to pick up your order.”

I let the Vite Esprit descend to the churro stand, and the cashier handed Theresa our receipt.

I looked at it. Forty five thousand, six hundred credits for the fuel and 900 credits for the food.

“This had better be worth it,” I muttered.

“Don’t be such a gristle, Mom,” Theresa said. “You’re the one always saying we should try new things.”

“When I say ‘let’s try new things’, I mean, ‘let’s try new things at places that aren’t likely to give us ptomaine.’ “

Theresa rolled her eyes. “This is the cleanest YPF we’ve been at.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady,” I said.

Suddenly, our noses caught the scent of the most gorgeous smell I’ve smelled since my childhood – and let me tell you, I’m no spring chicken.

Theresa was sniffing the air that was wafting into our Vite Esprit.

“Oh my God; I hope that’s our order,” she whispered.

“Me too,” I said.

Soon, a bag was thrust from the churro stand window, and Theresa grabbed it and opened it.

“Oh my god,” she said.

My mouth was watering too much to speak.

She pulled out a small cup – presumably the theobroma – and then after sitting it in the cup holder, pulled out a small container and opened it.

They were the American style churros. I was immediately transported in my mind’s eye back to my childhood. I had never visited America – hell, had never visited Earth – but my home colony was famous for American style churros.  (When I was a kid, I had to look it up on EduNet exactly what “American” was. Until then, it was only a style of churro for me.)

Theresa handed me the container, but not before snagging one for herself.

I slapped the back of her head. “Get your own, leech.”

“Oh my god,” she moaned.

I took the container from her and I tasted a churro.

Yes, it was that good.

Not greasy as I had feared – but a good blend of flour, salt, and sugar. They were a good yellow flour – and where had they been able to procure that,  I wondered?  And they tasted like heaven.

A honk from a horn startled me out of my reverie. There was a car behind us.

“Okay, okay,” I said, throwing the Vite Esprit into gear and engaging the hydrogen engine.

I pulled us around into a “parking lot”, that kept us in place with mechanical hitches.  A converted bus, and a surprisingly spiffy little sports car with canvas roof sat in the lot with us. Luckily the winds were mild, and the Vite Esprit didn’t rock much as we had our snacks.

I remembered having some at a fair on my home colony when I was a kid, and it reminded me of blue skies, and ferris wheels and a band on the midway…

Sappy. I know.

When we were finished, Theresa and I sat in silence. (We had been silent while we were eating as well.)

Finally, she said, “That was incredible.”

I nodded. “It was.”

“We should stop here again,” she said.

“We should,” I replied.

“We should get another…” she started.

I was disengaging the mechanical hitch and pulling the Vite Esprit  back around to the fueling station.

“Another two for me and another two for you? I’m on it,” I said.