The waiter, a Yourian, waddled over to our table; through the translator disc, she asked, "What can I get for you today?"
The menu was printed in the Polixaci trade koiné: symbols and wavy lines and color gradients. The pictures were no more helpful. I sputtered, "Uh… what's good?"
"We're known for our boiled shwill. And our fundlebrack. And the crottled greeps are fresh." She watched us try to look those dishes up in our travel guides, and sighed. "You're humans, right? We have meat loaf."
"What's the meat?"
"Something called a 'cattle'. I've never tried it."
"We'll take two."