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Thursday 15 September 2011

Letters

Touchy, Touchy....
A reader in California writes in regards to our recent notice on a cockup at Marseille restaurant:
I went back over this and it appears that you waited only half an hour, you were actually seated, before you started barking at the maitre.

What is wrong with you, d00d? You had to wait half an hour? Shit, that's like the Oakland Burgertown on a Saturday night. Do we all get so touchy as we age? I know I do, but I stifle it.

And did it take you this long to learn not to fuck with an old white-haired Frenchman with a tinge of power to him? Jimmy, they're the worst kind! Back the fuck away and wait!

Also, there is no way this guy figured you were American. Shit, I'm an American with an aging Boston marshmallow face and a name like six presidents, and half the frogs I run into think I'm at least from Moldava because I am simultaneously less stupid and more stupid than your average American. The white-hair guy undoubtedly thought you were Lebanese diaspora, maybe with a few generations run through Cuba.

Of course I could be wrong about all of this. But, on the other hand, they have been out of line ever since Napoleon.