A Year in the Merde

"But it is lak dat dat oui eat food in Fronce"

Je ploufe de rire a chaque fois que j'ouvre A Year in the Merde que Fede & Will ont eu la gentillesse de me ramener de leur voyage a Londres. Le héros so british raconte sa découverte de la France et de sa cuisine. Morceau choisi:

"No! Salt in the vinegar! Salt in the vinegar!" she pinched my arm viciously. "Wait until it disolves. Wait!" she was as much a dominatrix in the kitchen as she was in bed.
Two dozen micro-thin slices of raw ham were fanned out on a huge plate like the cards in a game of cholesterol poker. They were dark red almost black in places. I was sure my local supermarket in the UK would have discarded them for being in an advanced state of putrefaction, but Élodie said they were perfect. And I was too scared to say anything different. there was a cheese platter which i'd inadvisably tried to stow in the fridge. "In the fridge!? You don't put cheese in the fridge! You'll kill it!" Élodie clearly thought that the bacteria had a right to live and breed.

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Et la découverte des francaises (je me demande parfois si c'est comme ca que me percoive mes amants tcheques) :

she really had taken her MBA course to heart. sex for her was like a business model. we did some swift, efficient asset-stripping, carried out some required amount of research and development, then i was invited to position my product in her niche market. i did my best to satisfy her high demand with as much supply as i could muster. after a period of violently fluctuating market penetration, the bubble finally burst and we sank back, our sales forces completely spent.

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et la maman de la petite francaise:

set in the middle was a woman who epitomized the posh de la posh. blonde, shoulderlength, immense pearls, dior-style cardigan over an impeccably simple linen dress.
she walked to meet me, holding her hand out at what was almost certainly the Académie de France's prescribed wrist angle.
she shook (or rather pressed) hands, said she was "enchantée" and accepted my micro-bouquet with almost no hint that she thought it a soupcon less than spectacular.
she begged me to sit down on the sofa while she went to get a vase and ordered Jean-Marie to offer their guest a drink immediately.
behind the socially charming exterior, you sensed the steeliness of a lady who would protect her public reputation with a Louis Vuitton baseball bat.

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et (speciale dédicace a Francis), il cherche un appart dans Paris:

- plizz, sit down
he asked me what surface i was looking for which, after a few misunderstandings, turned out not to mean whether i wanted wallpaper or paint but how many square metres i wanted. understanding the question didnt really help because i wouldnt recognize a square metre if it had slapped me in the face.
- one bedroom?
- separate living?" the agent asked
- yes i'm living alone at the moment." though i didnt see what business it was of his.
i could tell from the way the agent closed one eye that we were in non communication mode again.
- er, separate salon." the guy asked again.
Now he thinks i'm one of a couple of gay hairdressers. this wasn't going well at all...
- you want one bedroom and one separate uzzer room. Salon is living, you know? living room?
- ah! yes. right. a bedroom and a living room." i nodded encouragingly.
- OK. I av.
- where is it?
- rue O'bare komf
- perfect.
- you know zis street?
- oh yes!
- you uont veezit now?
- i want.