text: When a 'lardy dah' French restaurant appeared on the scene, Mick knew that Pam would insist on going there to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and like any man who cherished marital harmony, he would do whatever it took to appease his wife -happy wife, happy life - the man's mantra. So there they stood at 8pm on a drizzly Tuesday evening, on Pratt's Bottom Highstreet pavement, holding hands and looking at the venue they'd be dining at. Pam lovingly looked at Mick, beamed a smile at him, and declared, "it look's soo romantic, Mick, I love you," squeezing his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. Mick said nothing but just nodded and feigned a smile back. He would have been quite happy to have a pasty and pint at their local, being a basic man, with basic needs, he never felt comfortable in spaces of pomp and pretentiousness. Le Petit Chateau seemed rather fancy, too fancy, and Mick scrutinised the shop's front with a detectives' squint. He disliked the name La Petit Chateau which was lit up with red spot lights, and he disliked the fancy cursive writing the signage was formed in, and he didn't see the point in having chairs and tables for the diners outside. Who would fancy eating their meal with all this noise and the stench and suffocation of car emissions? It had glittering reviews from a few hundred people who declared it as a 'transformative experience' and 'a slice of French heaven', and some even proclaimed the 'chef was an artist, and food is his palette. He knew he was going to hate it but Pam, who liked to say," Nobody does romance better than the French do," liked it, So that was that and he reluctantly lead Pam over the road, and escorted her in. As they entered through the door, quiet, classical music and the gentle murmur of many conversations of diners could be heard. Various eyes met them as they stood uncomfortably waiting until they were greeted by a well-dressed lady who smiled at them and asked them for their reservation in a thick, French accent. Mick announced to her,"we 'ave a reservation for Pam, table for two," to which the lady searched her screen, muttered unintelligible things to herself, then said something back in French, and escorted them to their seats. When they sat down, Pam leant in and told Mick, "int French such a beautiful language, Mick?" I wish you would speak French to me tonight, to make me feel special." Mick looked at her uneasily, but rolled his eyes upwards, trying to conjure what French he could remember from school, and remarkably found something he used to use on the girls in the school playground. Clearing his throat, he stuttered some words out, "petit croissant s'il vous plaît," to which Pam melted like a camembert. Women and French he thought, madness. While they waited for service, they made small talk to each other about the long stint of their marriage, saying banal things between moments of comfortable, long silences , "Thirty whole years, where did time go?" They'd tell each other marital anecdotes and reminisce of how they first met, whilst they held hands across the table, and gazed into each others faces illuminated by the table's candlelight. Mick's doubts about the French and the perceived pomposity of the venue, were beginning to subside, and he was now taking a liking to the place, but after sitting patiently for twenty minutes, he was getting a tad annoyed. Nobody had attended to them to offer a drinks menu or even really seemed to notice them, and Mick being the male, had the duty to catch the eyes of waiters and waitresses, who zoomed by to tend to others - but non made eye contact and non came. It was truly uncomfortable for a quiet and polite couple, who were used to service being given, not asked for. Mick tried to lighten the mood with one of his one liners, "they call 'em waiters for a reason - they make you wait," pam giggled politely to the joke she'd heard a thousand times already, and then looked around herself to see if a waiter could be communicated with through subtle eye contact. Eventually, she caught the eye of a butch, suited man with a thin moustache who hastened over and dropped an expensive wine list into their hands. As they both scanned the menu which happened to all be in French, their garcon, who introduced himself as Louis, produced a polite smile and began explaining what the house wine was, what its bouquet was, and what one would taste on the tongue. Seeing the bewildered and uncultured facial expressions on his diner's faces, appeared to irk him somewhat. They looked at him, then each other, and then back at him, as if slightly out of their depth, and seeking sympathy and help at the confusing list of words presented to them. Seeing the man was wholly unhelpful, Mick plucked up the courage to politely ask," Is there a beer menu? I am a beer man missen," laughing to himself. To which the waiter guffawed and sibilated, "Sacre bleu," throwing his hand in the air in dismay, and accidentally knocking Mick's menu to the floor. He picked up the menu, looked at Mick somewhat exasperated and protested, "Monsieur, why would you have Bier with fine French cuisine? This is not some cafe-brasserie, this is restaurant is about the gastronomique experience." The man then turned his head toward the general direction of the other staff, said something in French along the lines of 'barbare,' and all the staff laughed and looked at them in unison. Mick was an easy man to annoy and like some visual indicator of his internal anger state, his bald head and whole face would noticeably increase in redness, to alert others of his current state of mind. Pam would tell people Mick's anger states, or redness states, could be categorised like the incremental REDCON states of the US military; a scarlet would be 'he's mildly annoyed, a Rossa Corsa shade meant 'approach with ease or soon to blow', and a burgundy suggested an 'imminent physical outburst - basically someone was going to get nutted. The ridicule and public shaming of them for their devotion to beer, and their uncertainty and unknowing of the wine world, wound Mick right up, and his face and whole bald, head transitioned to scarlet. Once the laughter subsided, the waiter disappeared, and came back pouring wine into their glasses. He'd made a choice for them and started to inform them," This is the 'ouse wine, it has some vanilla notes in the bouquet, and it comes from the region of Bordeaux, where my family have been drinking this wine since they were babies." He then gestured a ceremony of pomposity for them. He, pretending to hold a glass of wine himself, began miming himself picking up a glass, rotating it under his nose, gently inhaling, then taking, short aggressive nasal intakes, before pretending to sip, gargle, and swallow his imaginary wine. He then pointed to them, and looked at them to say, 'now you do it' and they did. The waiter did a little condescending clap to them, said, "parfait,," gleefully, then dashed away to return with a food menu, which was also in French. Being British and all, and generally being too stubborn to learn another language, the menu may as well have been in hieroglyphics. They both pretended to read, giving tout the odd false, "hmm," of contemplation while Louis waited and watched them, with a smirk of knowing. They peeked to each other over the tops of their menus, shrugged their shoulders to each other, until Mick decided he should make the first move, and did what every British tourist did in foreign territory; he tilted the menu towards the waiter, pointed at the first item in the starters section and asked,"wossat?" To which the waiter frowned, squinted and then replied, "you no speak français?," he knew they didn't but wanted to hear the defeat in their voices, and Mick gave a nervous, "no French, to which Louis irritatingly raged, "Sacre Bleu," shaking his left fist into the air and storming into the kitchen. They both shrugged it off, looking forward to the authentic French dining experience coming their way, and slurped their wines waiting to see what would happen next. What happened next was the eruption of a loud rant emanating from the kitchen, "They come to French restaurant and do not speak French, it is disrespectful. If I came to chippy or burger van, and I ordered in French, they would tell me to learn English or go back to my own country, why they disrespect us like this?" This was followed by some minutes of silence apart from he usual clanks of kitchenware, and they began to wonder if the man had quit in a rage. Unfortunately, Louis eventually came back looking visibly sweatier, and began to inform them in a calmer voice," My apologies dear guests for my outburst, Louis will take care of you better this evening, and I will order for you on this special evening. I wish for you to have the real French experience tasting menu, and I have handpicked course which mean a lot to me and my heritage, and I think you will like. Please also have another bottle of the 'ouse wine on me, Madame and Monsieur." Pam and Mick were quite taken aback by the transformation of behaviour from loony French man to French gentleman, but it was appreciated and they began to relax a bit more. The first course came out and Louis placed the plate bowls in front of them. It looked like some buttery, herby soup with a meat that they were unfamiliar with. They both sniffed it and enjoyed the herby, garlic, and buttery smells coming from the dish, giving utterances of, "Mm," to show their pleasure to the waiter. Louis announced the dish, "Madame and Monsieur, this is my favourite childhood dish, escargots à la bourguignonne please enjoy," then walked away and watched eagerly from the side. They took a few tentative sips of the buttery sauce from their spoons before slurping in and chewing the pile of meat pieces stewed in the sauce. Pam's face twisted and wrinkled up as she chewed the strange meat in her mouth, forcing a swallow of each morsel down with a guzzle of wine. The meat was foul, rubbery, and unpleasant but they ate as much as they could out of politeness for Louis' beloved meal, before the lingering taste became too much to handle in their mouths, gulping more and more wine to help cleanse their palettes. Louis swooped in with a mischievous smile to ask them how it was. They said nothing, but smiled and nodded, and he took the plates away smiling to himself like a villain performing some dastardly deed. The next course that arrived was a bit more recognisable, and looked like a meat platter, which came with frites, helpings of buttered bread, and dipping sauces. Mick sat up and rubbed his hands together to say 'this is more like it,' being a typical meat-obsessed man and all. Louis smiled at him and announced, "Madame and Monsieur, another dish that I fondly remember from my child hood: here are some Couilles De Mouton, Cerveaux, Les Cuisses De Gernouille, and Pieds De Porc, accompanied with machine cut Frites, and sauces. Please enjoy." At closer inspection, the meats on offer here were not the shapes and cuts of meat that Pam and Mick were used to seeing in British cuisine, but being polite, subjugated, British characters, they didn't want to ask what they were, and kept their mouths shut and tucked in. They devoured the selection of meats and found them more palatable than the first course - whatever that was. Though Mick encountered some quirky new textures and flavours of meats, unfamiliar to his previous eating experiences thus far, which he attributed to the breeding and husbandry of the animals being different over there in France. The spherical, ball-like meats were quite tough and chewy, one was stringy, soft, and fatty, and the last one he tried was somewhat sour and wet from being boiled. The flavour attributes varied from quite muttony or gamey to salty or umami. A real taste experience, Mick thought, though he wasn't sure if it was an enjoyable or an unpleasant one. Again they slurped the wine down and cleansed their fragile, British palettes, ready for the dessert course, which appeared in white ramekins. "Ahhh, Creme Brulee," Mick said to himself whilst smiling at both Pam and Louis. He cracked the caramelised sugar with his spoon before diving into the soft, creamy, yellow custard and spooning out a perfectly held, yet wobbly heap of it into his mouth. The feeling of the silky mass melting on his tongue, intoxicated his taste buds, blissfully. His eyes rolled back into his head and he audibly emitted pleasure sounds to himself - he was having his first foodgasm - which was interrupted by a tapping on his shoulder, "Monsieur." Mick like coming out of a dream, turned to look at Louis wondering why he was being interrupted during the only enjoyable course, and his food climax. It was simply the business of receiving the bill, which could have waited, and he was handed the bill folder that enclosed the cost of the evening, which he placed on the table in front of him. Louis asked that they call him when they are ready to pay, and walked away to wait and watch for the man's reaction. This was his finale, the moment he contrived with artifice and deceit. After they ate their final delectable bites of the divine crème brulee, Mick opened up the bill and saw a collection of numbers, which gave him sudden, heart palpitations. The cost of the 'authentic French experience' was quite staggering, and Mick now wished he'd had the unauthentic experience. It was an enormous sum for a car mechanic and secretary- an I won't eat for the rest of the week bill. Mick began to connect some dots, and felt like their suddenly friendly garcon, had plotted this, causing anger tor begin swelling up within him at the realisation of what, Louis, their Jekyll and Hyde waiter had really been up to. It angered Mick so much so, that his whole head colour escalated to tier 2 -Rossa Corsa. It appeared that their rude then suddenly polite and well-mannered waiter, had ordered them the most expensive items on the menu, including the extravagant wine that Louis was bottle-fed as a baby, presumably by his aristocrat parents at these prices. Pam seeing Mick's distress, asked to see the Bill and Mick saw her eyes widen and and a hand cover her mouth to cover a gasp of shock. Of course people like to splurge on special occasions, but this was too much, they couldn't really afford a splurge like this. Red-headed Mick waved Louis over to pay the bill. Rather than saying anything and giving the French man any joy he wanted from inflicting his foul acts upon them, Mick kept quiet, and held in any anger boiling within him. It was his wedding anniversary after all, he didn't want to ruin it. Louis asked, "If everything was to their satisfaction Madame and Monsieur?" to which Mick and Pam responded with polite, "yes, thankyou, Monsieur Louis," veiling their discontent expertly. The French man feeling somewhat robbed, had one final trick up his sleeve, and told them, "one moment, I have a gift," and rushed into the kitchen to fetch something. He came back as Mick and Pam were slipping on their coats to leave, and handed Pam the folded piece of paper, again smiling, before informing them that he'd translated the menu for them, so they would know what to try next time they came. He nodded and pointed to indicate they should look now, so Pam did. She unfolded the paper and Mick watched his wife of thirty years quickly transition from a happy wife, sufficiently romanced and well-fed, become a sobbing mess of a women. He snatched the paper from her hand and began to read the paper, turning redder and redder as his eyes worked their way through the list of courses: Escargots à la bourguignonne - Burgundy Snails baked in garlic and butter Couilles De Mouton - Sheep balls Cerveaux - Cow's brain Cuisses De Gernouille - Fried frogs legs Pieds De Porc - Pig trotters Crème Brulee - French custard better than British slop, you barbare Pam still sobbing, pointed to Mick and whimpered, "Redness state Burgundy." She was right, his head resembled that of a beetroot, and someone was about to get butted. The foul-minded Frenchman had ruined Pam's special night, and nobody ruins Pam's special, romantic, once a year, night. Mick grappled the Frenchman by his cravat, scrumpled and shoved the paper of into his mouth, and head butted the man, causing him to collapse like a sack of Pomme de Terre. Other waiters came to assist their colleague, who lay on the floor dazed and confused. Mick grabbed Pam's hand, and they left, swiftly. There are times when nothing needs to be said and after the horrific dining experience they had, and the terrible things they chewed, sucked and swallowed through their innocent mouths. They did what most polite, British people did, they bottled it up, to release later, away from the public sphere. Friends and family would hear of this tale for weeks to come, but first, Mick had a public duty to carry out as a devout online reviewer. Never had the keyboard felt his burgundy-headed wrath like it did tonight - tip-tap, tip-tap - Trip advisor.com. selected one star, starts typing' ...Sacre Bleu....what an offal evening.' The End