What Did He Say?

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We had been in Paris a few days so I decided one morning to put my conversational French learning to use by ordering breakfast in the room.  I had heard my wife make the request a few times.  While she showered, I called. "Bonjour," a lady answered. "Bond-jurr, me-damn," I said, thinking– boy, this is going to be so cool; I’m going to really impress my honey with coffee and croissants ready when she comes out of the bath.  "Jay vood-ray petty day-jee-nay par doo, seal-voo-play, Ma-damn." Silence.  Then a chuckle.  Then a laugh and a long giggle.  In perfect English came the amused query," Yes, Monsieur, right away– one breakfast for God.  And would Madame care for breakfast also?" At that moment I should have decided to rely on my wife for all translations, orders, requests, or what ever entailed the usage of the French language. But then all my efforts in French class would have been wasted. Our Paris lodging, the Hotel Brighton, was directly across the street from a park.  "Jardin des Tuileries" my wife called it.  Since every guide book seemed to recommend a picnic in a park , we had one. I cozied up to sweetie pie and whispered, "How about a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou?"  Pretty romantic, huh?  Pretty Parisian, huh? Around the block we found a deli carry-out place that displayed all sorts of those cute little French munchies. Inside, for wine, le Chateauneuf du Pape was recommended by a clerk.  "Get some bread while I pick out the cheese," my wife requested (she knows all about things like that ).  The bread didn’t appear to be sliced, and Madame did not seem inclined to do so even though I had given the loaf a number of karate chops, followed by a quizzical, "Uh?" So, I gave up and look around and spotted some beautiful sausages.  Just perfect for the picnic! "Jay vood-ray doo sausages, seal-voo-play, May-damn," I said, holding up two fingers. "Ah Monsieur, l’andouillette , la viande est crue, la viande, n’est-ce pas cuisinee," she said. " OK!"  I replied. "Monsieur, la viande n’est-ce pas cuisnee," she repeated. They must be really good, I thought. Cuisine rated, she said!  " OK! Tra," I replied, holding up four fingers.  For some reason, with a shrug and a sigh, she wrapped up my sausages. When we had our picnic,  the wine, cheese and bread were wonderful. But, the sausages were a disappointment.  My wife tasted one and announced she wouldn’t eat that. She purported it to be raw. As I often say to my wife, "I’m not as dumb as I look." In her precious little voice she usually parries, "But , then again, maybe you are, darling." I love her many endearments. My wife and I were having lunch at Lucas Carton– one of the highlights of our visit to Paris.  She had the fish– I, the pigeon.  Hemingway– Paris– pigeon– yeah, I’m cool, I thought. The waiter, placing a silver bowl on the table, said, "Doigt bassin -vanger vowl." "What’d he say?" I asked my wife who had a semester of French in Jr. College and knows all about France and everything. "What?" she said. "What’d he say?"  I said. "I don’t know.  I wasn’t listening,"  she said.  "What did it sound like?" "Vanger vowl,"  I say."Vanger vowl," she repeated, while studying the silver bowl nesting near my pigeon.  "I think that is a vinegar sauce for the bird.  Just dip a bite in it. "  I did so only to find it is quite tasteless. "Maybe you need more to get the real flavor,"  she encouraged. "But, there is no serving spoon ," I retorted. "Just pick up the bowl and pour it on the bird," she forcefully suggested. "Is that better?" she asked. " Can you discern the flavor now?" "Well, really pretty watery stuff– has a kind of flower smell," I observed."I don’t think I’d eat it!" she exclaimed. As I pondered, a waiter approached and in very good English (and with a very broad smile) asked if I desired more rose water for the finger bowl. Bonjour Paris is pleased to have Don Andrews as a contributor.
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