I was scrolling through Twitter a few days ago just looking for people talking about their servers. These are the things I find myself doing at 1:00 AM when I am too hyped up after work and cannot fall asleep. I was looking for Tweets that would inspire me or piss me off or engage me in some way when I came across a Tweet that said:
“Ali and I ate lunch at this little cafe in France and our waiter was really rude so we left him a little message.”
Attached to the Tweet was a photo where this darling young girl had spelled out in mustard the words “fuck you” onto her plate. Charming, isn’t she? She seems to be having the time of her life in France because one of her Tweets said “France is cul.” I know when I had the good fortune to be in Paris last year, I found he Eiffel Tower to be inspiring, the Musée d’Orsay was completely mind-blowing, the Catacombs were thought provoking, the food was delicious, the people were so warm and friendly. Overall, I too thought France was “cul.”
I can’t help but wonder what Rachel and Ali experienced that made them think their waiter was rude to them. First off, they are probably used to eating at Chili’s and Applebee’s so when the waiter didn’t skip to their table and write his name out in Crayon onto a piece of butcher block paper, they begin to think that he had a bad attitude. I bet he also did not squat down beside the table to take their order or say “Bonjour, my name is Jean-Luc and I will be taking care of you this evening.”
It was probably something like this:
“Oh. Ma. Ga. Ali, he didn’t even offer us fried cheese sticks or anything. He is SO rude,” said Rachel. “I totally wanted French Fried Fromage.”
“I know. And like, how come he’s not even wearing any flair or anything? This is France,” said Ali. “I would think his flair would be all like Yves Saint Laurent and shit. He’s just wearing black pants and a white shirt. Rude.”
Ali moved her chair closer to Rachel because she felt too close for comfort to the people beside her at the next table.
Rachel picked up the menu. “Oh. Ma. Ga. This menu is like totally in French and I can’t read any of it. They don’t even try to help tourists feel comfortable here. It’s like when we went to Versailles yesterday. There was no air conditioning at all. Rude. And Notre Dame had way too many stairs.”
She flagged down her waiter who was standing at the other side of the restaurant writing an order down and handing it to the chef.
“Excuse moi,” she said as she snapped her fingers. “Excuse moi.”
The waiter approached her table and said something in French to them.
“Ummm, do you speak American? I’m American and I can’t understand you, so…”
Jean-Luc easily switched over to English and asked them if they were ready to order. The girls explained that they could not read the menu and asked if they had an American version of it, you know, for tourists. Jean-Luc apologized and offered to help them choose something for lunch.
“Zee mussels wiz white wine ees very good or perhaps you may try zee poisson de jour which comes with haricot verte et roasted potato?”
“Ummm, never mind,” said Rachel as she held her palm up to his face. “Just give us a minute.” Jean-Luc stepped away from the table and Ali and and Rachel looked at each other, confused.
“Oh. Ma. Ga,” said Rachel. “I heard him say ‘poison.” He offered us the poison de jour. He is, like, totally trying to kill us. Rude, right?”
“So rude. Totally,” agreed Ali. “Like, I just want a hamburger and fries and a Diet Coke with ice. Why don’t they put ice in anything over here?”
“Because they’re rude, that’s why.”
The two girls finally ordered their burgers and were very disgusted to find that each one came with an egg on top of it. They never once got a free refill and when they asked for yellow mustard all they got was brown moutarde.
“How come in France I have not been able to get French dressing OR French’s mustard?” complained Rachel. “I don’t get it. This is France and they don’t even have any French food here.”
As is customary in France, the waiter kept his distance from the table and did not bring the check until the two girls had asked for it. Ali and Rachel, being the clever little vixens that they are, decided to perpetuate the “vulgar American” stereotype by leaving a message for their server; a hearty “fuck you” spelled out in mustard with the help of a toothpick. They probably also stiffed their server thinking they were really hurting him when everyone knows that servers in France get paid a living wage and Jean-Luc didn’t need their two Euros anyway.
I hope that Rachel and Ali see this little fictionalized story I have created about them and even though I was not there, I have reason to believe it’s pretty close to being factual. Thanks, Rachel, for giving me something to bitch about today.
Never fear, though. All is not lost. That same night I also found this photo on Twitter which can give us all hope:
update: Someone got all butt hurt over this post. I changed it up a little bit to soothe some hurt feelings. Bottom line is someone posted something on Twitter and then didn’t want to stand behind what they said. When I found the picture on Twitter, I didn’t know shit about the person who posted it. I just took the screenshot and made up a story. The age of social media is not for sissies. -BW