Frenchmen

You Gotta Love 'em!

I suppose much of Belgium overflows with Frenchmen. Brugge had its share serving in the sidewalk cafes. At best, most of them were rude and condescending. I try not to profile people....well, perhaps a little! But I don't see it as being my fault because I was trained to profile in the military! That's right. If it walks like a Duck and quacks like a Duck, it can't be a Chicken! Why, I could pick out a Viet Cong from 10,000 feet just listening to him send Morse Code!

I don't usually go around profiling but I do condemn those who disgrace a race. Certainly not all Frenchmen fall into the rude category. I can only speak of those who I have met. It seems as if the majority I've met fall into the rude category. It occurs to me that Frenchmen have a way about themselves.

Our waiter in the Airport Hotel restaurant last night was a fitting example. The restaurant was very nice; the waiters were dressed in dark suits and the table looked nice. We get our inch thick menus and choose our meals. Deb asks what is the soup of the day? "Carrot", he replied. She's not into carrot, unless it sparkles! She orders tomato bisque. About 30 minutes pass and the waiter brings a bowl of hot rolls and butter. As we have no plates yet we sit there and watch the rolls cool down. Kind of like watching paint dry, or gasoline evaporating on the sidewalk on a hot summer day. After another 15 minutes, the waiter comes over and serves Ron the soup of the day. We reminded him that Debby ordered the tomato soup and Ron ordered the spaghetti. He seemed a little taken back that he had made a mistake and hoped to convince us that he hadn't. Reluctantly, he took it back to the kitchen. Nancy asked him for some plates that we can use for the formerly hot rolls. Another "look" from the waiter like why would we want plates? I thought about crumbling the bread and smearing butter on the brown linen table runner to help him see why the plates would be a good idea. Debby wouldn't let me. A few minutes later he brought four saucers. Good thing for us the butter was soft spread!

Another 15 minutes pass and Debby gets her tomato bisque, which she eats. The waiter picks up the soup bowl and Debby compliments the chef. The waiter kind of grunted.

Another few minutes later he served our main courses. Even though my Medium-Well Prime Rib was outwardly charred, the inside was barely warm. I ate most of it by smearing the thick mushroom gravy I had ordered all over the top and sides in order not to see what I was eating. I dared not send it back as I could imagine the abuse it might have suffered in the hands of a disgruntled Frenchman!

The whole ordeal brought back near-wonderful memories of our Paris vacation about 6 years ago. How dare we insult our waiter by ordering coffee so early in the morning, when he had JUST opened his shop!! We quietly apologized for not ordering in French and gladly paid the six bucks for a small cup of strong coffee.

It seemed like an epidemic! All over Paris, there were rude Frenchmen EVERYWHERE! It's like if you didn't speak their language, you was dirt or something. I must confess that I am not the only one like me. I feel good about that because misery loves company, you know. But being in Brussels reminds me again why we did not choose a Paris visit this time (as much as we liked the Eiffel Tower the last time).

You know, the French used to like us back during the War of Independence. What happened over the next 230 years?

Are they still upset because we make the world's best French Fries?? I think so!