An unfortunate accidental restaurant order
Rouen, Normandy, my colleague Ross and I are enjoying our last night in France at a bistro in the city centre, near the Eglisse Jeanne D’Arc where Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake.
Cockerels, big and small decorate the restaurant, paintings of them don the walls, statues and models fill every corner. Waiters whiz by carrying orders to busy tables to the murmur of guests punctuated by the clinking of cutlery on china and the glug-glug-glug of wine being poured.
Our waitress approaches, short and blonde with a no nonsense look about her, she curtly responds in the negative to Ross’ inquiry as to whether she speaks English.
“Err…” he stutters, a lost look of confusion spreading rapidly across his face.
He’s hungover from last night, and in its fatigued state, Ross’ mind has failed him. Whatever little French he did possess has now completely departed. Unwilling to…
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