I remember the salad days when, like fifth column expatriates, we would abscond to the Kew Gardens to flee the fug that occasionally enveloped London like horripilation on a trembling infant's arm, and on one lovely occasion, with simian agog, we devoured gazpacho in the Duke's Garden while a classical opus floated through lavender scented air. 

Now it was, and still is, against the rules of the Royal Botanic Gardens to bring in "outside food or beverages" so we plotted for a long while as to how we would sneak in our refreshing summer lunch.  Damon suggested that we argue the soup in on technicalities.  He walked straight up to the front gate with that tremendous punch bowl of gazpacho.

"Pardon me, sir, but outside food and beverages are not permitted in the Royal Botanic Gardens," a gate officer announced. 

"Oh no, sir, it's ok.  This is gazpacho, which is too thin to be considered a food, and yet too thick to be considered a beverage," Damon replied. 

"Gazpacho, you say?  Let's have a look at that," and the guard, as though prepared for this very circumstance, pulled a spoon from his front pocket and sampled the cold soup.  His previously blank eyes lit up with delight. 

"I do say, that is simply divine.  Yes, simply divine, but I do believe that this is an outside food item."  The guard turned toward the ticketing counter where a second guard had been idling.  "Charles," he called, "do come here and help us settle a gazpacho matter."  Charles walked over quickly, grave and attentive, as though this were a matter of utmost importance.  "Here, Charles," the first guard started, "you must try this gazpacho.  Have you your spoon?"

"Of course," replied Charles, pulling a spoon from his pocket.  As he sipped a hefty spoonful from the bowl, the first guard continued.

"These children wish to bring this soup into the park.  They insist that it is neither food nor beverage, and is therefore not prohibited from the grounds."  Charles smacked his lips together, his eyes gazing off, solemn and pensive, as he surveyed the tastes in his mouth.

"My," Charles began, "this is a fine soup.  Do I detect a hint of paprika?" 

"Yes, there is a spot of paprika in the soup," Maria, the soup artist, piped.

"Ah, yes, brilliant indeed!  As for the matter of bringing it into the park, I believe I side with the children.  This is not quite food, nor is it beverage," Charles declared.

"But Charles, does it not still retain the essence of food, despite its odd texture?"

"I should say not.  This is not substantial British food like fish and chips, or steak and kidney pie, or even Yorkshire pudding.  No, these clever children and their gazpacho will be allowed in today, and today only, by means of a loophole that I will promptly tie shut," replied Charles, grabbing a permanent pen from his back pocket.  On the posted list of prohibited items, just after where it stated "No outside food or beverages," Charles neatly printed "(including gazpacho)."

Damon beamed and thanked the gentlemen for their understanding.  We entered the Duke's Garden and sprawled across its luxurious green bedding, basking in this fresh, aromatic respite from the inner city tumult.  The gazpacho was passed around and each person indulged in the massive communal bowl.  After a few spoonfuls Damon paused sharply with his spoon in midair.

"Do you not like it, Damon?" Maria inquired with shadows of worry flickering in her maternal eyes.

"Well, I've just recalled that I'm allergic to paprika," Damon stated with strange repose.  I glanced at Maria with a half-smile and we both laughed.

"Oh Damon, you're such a buffoon.  Quit joking," Maria said playfully.  Damon's eyes suddenly widened like a wild beast.

"Yes, you'd like to believe that I'm a feebleminded simian, but I can see the score here, trying to poison your dear friend with gazpacho, the Magnum opus of your culinary and treacherous endeavors," he insisted with agog, adding with further accusatory trenchant, "and so I see the fifth column has advanced from its salad days to suffocate me with my own allergy-induced fug," and, covered in horripilation that would soon swell into giant nervous hives, our delirious friend stood to abscond from the Kew Gardens but passed out after a few steps. 

Maria stepped over to me and, in a low voice, whispered:

"I didn't actually put any paprika in the soup."