Wednesday, 10 March 2010

French lessons

I usually limit my laser-precise insights to the world of marketing. But today I'm broadening my horizons. Because horizons are meant to be broadened, just like envelopes are meant to be pushed.

Some time ago, I gave you the benefit of my knowledge as a veritable Caligula of cunnilingus. This time, I'll be helping you negotiate the minefield that is dining in French restaurants.

I was taken to one today and, putting it simply, it wasn't exactly plain sailing.


First, they DO NOT serve balti. I asked. I can't conceive of a possible reason for not serving balti, but there you have it - they don't serve fucking balti. If you find out why they don't serve balti, let me know. It's the very definition of nonsensical. I'll say it again, so you're in no doubt. They. Don't. Serve. Fucking. Balti. Un-cunting-believable.

Second, the waiters get very sniffy if you order something they're not used to. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but as the customer, I'm used to being king. So when I order a pint of claret and lemonade, I don't expect to have the manager called over. Likewise when I order a fried egg sandwich, a quadruple Scotch 'n' Malibu or a jar of peanut butter and a spoon.

Third, steak tartare is raw fucking meat! I know! Fucking amazing! (My delight was slightly dampened though by yet more sniffiness - this time at a request for salad cream. Fuck knows why - I was sure to ask for Heinz.)

Fourth, you'll find about 46 pieces of cutlery littered about your place at the table. Apparently, you start with the ones on the outside and work your way in with each course. Far more logical, I say, is to use cutlery that matches the size of the food you're eating. But oh no - that's an offence to some cunt called Escoffier. (I don't know who he is but he must have been a fucking nightmare to live with.)

Fifth, when you see the word 'flambee' in the name of a dish, it means a waiter will come to your table with a little pan, your food and a bottle of booze. He will then put the food in the pan, cover it with the booze and SET FUCKING FIRE TO IT! It's as good as it sounds! Sure, they don't get too chuffed when you (for a fucking joke, Pierre) dangle your tie in the inferno, but it's still a highly entertaining spectacle.

Sixth, they get very, VERY angry when you flambee food yourself. In fact, they get the manager over, who boots you out and calls you a 'pootan' or something. But, really, what do they expect? First, they set fire to food, which sets a pretty bad fucking example for a kick-off. Then they allow me to have a bottle of brandy at the table because it saves them bringing me a double every 3 minutes. It's just fucking asking for trouble.

Anyway, that's French restaurants. Raw meat and formally endorsed arson let down by fussiness, an illogical approach to cutlery and a refusal to serve balti.

I hope that clarifies things for you. Actually - of course it does!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!

2 comments:

  1. Ha ha ha! Possibly your funniest post yet!

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  2. No balti - a fucking travesty. I'm amazed you stuck around, but perhaps now that you've seen flambee in action you could develop some kind of balti-flambee crossover. It could be a huge hit in curry houses the world over.

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