I do NOT speak French

Somehow my restaurant got listed in a French guidebook about New York City. Do you know happy it makes me to know that there are scores of rude Parisians who are crawling through New York City with the address to where I work? I can spot them as soon as they walk in. It’s usually a family. The son is usually kind geeky and maybe gonna be hot some day. The mother is usually a bitch. They always want a “coca-cola” and bottled water and have lots and lots of questions about the menu. And then they always order a freaking hamburger. They never order the french toast. Ever. Fucking French. One lady asked me if we had hot dogs today. Listen, Frenchie, if it ain’t on the menu we ain’t got it. Got it? I wish I could get my hands on le douchebag who put us in that guide book because apparently he forgot to tell his readers that in America we tip. WE TIP. Today at one point I only had four tables. Three of them were French. There goes my tip average because they think 5% is generous. They need to take their beret wearing, baguette eating, cigarette smoking asses to some other dining hole. Au revoir, old French whore.