I was at a very ritzy (overpriced) cafe having dessert after giving in to a craving for angel food cake.
My mother used to make a lemon version that was so moist it would melt in your mouth. Try to replicate that in your twilight years. I had to settle for a plain, a bit past its prime, pound cake, whose best feature was the doily it sat on.
I figured I’d dunk it in my cafe au lait peasant style until I noticed something unusual. It had a blue tint along the side. At first I thought it could be the light, but on closer inspection realized it was mold…bluish green mold.
“Um, waiter, could you…yes…please,” I said, waving him to my table. He and his attitude sauntered over clearly annoyed to be summoned. He was French and my tab was small after all, so what did I expect, good service?
“Tis semthing rrr-ong with your poond keek?”
“I’ll say…it appears to be moldy?” I said, holding it up to the light.
“Maldy did ju zay?”
“Yes, it’s the color of a bowling ball I once had.”
“Never mind. How can you serve something old like this. If I hadn’t noticed I might have gotten sick.”
“But ju deed not geet zeek. ”
He looked his nose down at me as of to say, es tu fou (are you crazy?) Reminded me of the scene in the film Victor Victoria when the waiter after being told there’s a bug in Julie Andrews’s salad says, “I’d be zurbrised if there wo-sn’t woon.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I would.”
“Ah, hee ezz out…too bod. May I ba-ding you semthing olse?”
“Yes, how about the number of the health department.” He pissed me off with his lack of real remorse. There were quite a few older women having their afternoon tea. I’m sure none of them knew their systems, later that afternoon, might be under siege.
“I will schanze your or-der Ma-dom…what olse would you hove me du?”
Soak your head?
I’m not sure what possessed me, but I asked to see the manager. Andre, who looked like a flamenco dancer, oiled his way to my table with even less charm. He too looked exasperated at my reaction.
“Ma-dom, I az-zure you’, this neva hoppens. It tis our err-er’ how-evar.”
“You don’t say…how big of you.”
I finally let it go.
Remarkably there was no check. Makes you wonder what might have been in the coffee.
Who said a French tickler?