All I wanted was a splash of ketchup for my fries. She didn’t have to respond the way she did. Back home everyone eats their fries with ketchup. That waitress should have respected our cultural differences and brought me ketchup. Of course the same argument applies to me so I should have respected French culture too… but I’m the one with the blog so she’s wrong.
You’ve probably deduced from my bitterness that I never got my ketchup. That waitress forced me to enjoy those fresh crisped salt bathed fries without it and I hate to say: they were delicious and certainly some of the best fries I’ve ever had. “Ne pas tradicional”, with a nice smirk to match her condescending tone she growled and spat the words like a feisty chihuahua wearing a sombrero. “Will you survive?” were her last stabs before she turned and left, spoken in english so condescendingly I felt her poison shooting through my veins. It was like being stabbed with my own sword. She wasn’t only commenting on my etiquette, something deeper, harder and meaner was in her words…
I am an ugly American. I asked for ketchup just like the others. But what about her? She was so rude, so condescending, so snobbish. I’m not an ugly American, she’s a snobby Francias. A simple sorry and explanation wouldn’t have killed her. Plus I would have sympathized and happily forgotten the ketchup. But, asking for ketchup was a slap in the chef’s face. I’m lucky he didn’t catch wind of my sin. She did have a point though. I could have tried the fries before I asked her and I could have left my American habit at home.
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