The Most Brilliant Woman in the World
Admittedly I was young and unsophisticated, so I don't blame the waiter at the French restaurant for his response after I called him over and quietly whispered, "Excuse me, sir, but can you find some rolls that aren't as hard as hockey pucks?"
After a long look down a longer nose, what he said was, "Excuse me, madam, but those are our finest rolls."
Now it was my turn to stare as my somewhat-new husband tried to disappear. Then I said, "Well, I know where you can get some good soft yeast rolls that don't make your teeth fall out when you bite into them. And did you know —" here I held up one of his rolls "— these are cold?"
I'm sure he was thinking, "What a gauche young woman. What did I do that God should so punish me by sending such a person into my orbit?" I'm sure he was thinking that because, well, it was written all over his face.
I merely bring this up to let you know that Fine French Dining and I simply do not get along. I'm much too practical and I do not impress easily. Those of you who have read my book Conversations In Hyperreality will attest to this. If you have not read the book, then make the damn investment and find out for yourself. You will not be disappointed and you will be supporting The Arts. See what a fine thing you're doing?
Digression over. Back to les grenouilles and their condescending food.
So, years and years pass. How many is none of your business. But my Awesome Aunt Number One [AANO], Pearl, was being visited by Awesome Aunt Number Two [AANT], her sister Virginia. Naturally they wanted to go out to eat and so I picked them up and headed to Pearl's fave eatery, a French restaurant. "My treat!" she yodeled.
This was a real French restaurant, too. Seriously. I walked in and there was a bunch of Catholic priests in their uniforms. I could tell who the top honcho was because he was at a table with no other priests and surrounded by people who were obviously sucking up to God. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was chatting or laughing. [I kid you not. I was looking for the table full of Nazis in full regalia.]
They were there to eat and be seen and by God and Mother Mary and Jesus and all the Saints they were going to eat and be seen doing so, in the right company, of course. This was serious business.
Those poor folks who had to crowd around a table with a lowly priest stared enviously at the main table.
We three non-Catholics stood out like sore thumbs in the hammer aisle at Home Depot. The host condescended to seat us and we got some sort of round booth smack-dab in the middle of the place where absolutely everybody stared at us.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Angela, I hope you didn't say anything stupid this time and just minded your manners and acted all polite and stuff." I'm sorry you are thinking that because that is not what happened.
Not that I didn't try. I did. I tried really hard. But when you find out what happened, you will not blame me this time. This time I was deliberate in my declarations, or as les grenouilles would say, déclarations.
Here is what happened.
AANO and AANT ordered chicken and rice. I ordered some sort of beef with a sauce. There's a name for what I ordered, but I've tried to put it out of my mind, so I do not remember it at this time. Their dishes came and then mine was placed in front of me.
Well, of all the foods I've ever eaten, I can tell you Roasted Gristle Cut-on-the-Grain with Meh Brown Gravy Slopped Over and Presented With Wan Potato Not-Au-Gratin is not my favorite.
AANO and AANT immediately saw the look on my face and they whispered urgently, "Angela, DO NOT COMPLAIN. Just eat it. It's FRENCH." As if that helped.
Well, says I, I ain't paying for this sh---, I mean merde. Right there, in the middle of the restaurant, with everybody looking, I raised my hand and started looking around for our waiter. He saw me and, seeing a possible defector who might just start a riot, hot-footed it over to the table and bent over me with a Oui, puis-je vous aider? Yessir, you can help me, says I.
Firstly, I did not order Roast Gristle. Secondly, your bread is hard as a damn hockey puck.
Both AANO and AANT almost fainted dead away. AANO said, "I'll swap with her and she can have my chicken." I said, "Pearl, your chicken is rubber, you just said so. I don't want to swap gristle for rubber." Then turning to the waiter, who by this time was furious along with the rest of those who were Dining Fine, I said, "Look. You take this back. You tell that chef of yours to cut my piece against the grain —"
He interrupted with, "MahDAHM, NO wahn hassss EVER return a deesh to le chef."
What a frickin' fake French accent. I marveled that he got away with it. But I continued and said, "Shall I walk it back there? Because I can and I will."
And he knew I would.
Those who know me know I'm not lying nor exaggerating.
Anyway, out came a much better piece of meat, this time cut against the grain. Almost fell apart, it was so tender. The gravy was fresh. The potatoes just about stood up and saluted. And the rolls had been heated and buttered. It was all still bland, but it was better. I added salt and pepper and I ate it.
Well, you could have heard a pin drop when this better dish came out. Even the Big Catholic Boss was staring at me. Who the hayle are you to get better food than moi? The waiter was staring from me to the chef hovering in the doorway of the kitchen and back, both had expressions of Qui diable êtes-vous, femme? Glad you asked, sirs. Let me tell you who the hayle I am.
I am a Magnificently Methodical Southern Woman...and don't you forget it. See? That's how we saved your boohineys in WWII. Just saying.
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