Flash Back 1988:
Staring at the French menu, French Husband translated it for me but not word for word. He read, "Chicken no. Lamb no. Bunny certainly not. The liver of a duck…Oh, I use to love the liver of the duck… mais no."
We were vegetarians in a world of meat eaters. Slim pickings' with a whole lot of desserts.
The waiter came to our table, pencil in hand, not a smile upon his face dressed in his black coat and long white apron. Food is a serious business in France. I felt like a small potato on a kitchen counter looking at the pot of boiling water.
Pretending I knew how to speak French I said, that we did not eat meat, and could he suggest something for us? Beaming with pride that my broken, heavily accented French had caused the waiter's left side of his mouth to turn up, I thought he smiled and waited for his response. Instead, he simply clicked his heels and said, "Alors? (Well then?)"
French Husband leaned across the table, grabbed my hand as if the moment were intimate, romantic, I felt a rush inside but my bubble burst when he said, "Corey, you just told the waiter, that we do not eat food."
My red face did not match my lipstick. I looked up at the waiter with an awkward smile.
You see the word "Beef" which is pronounced: "Boeuf," and the word "Eat" in slang is: "Bouffe." Looking at these two words you can see the difference is not extraordinary.
We dined.
The waiter smiled.
I learned how to say vegetarian right then and there.
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