Today, I went to Café Rouge
for breakfast. If my order had taken longer to come out, I risked resembling Norman Bates’ mother*.
It wasn’t as if I’d asked for anything ambitious. I only wanted porridge and a croissant. For some reason, this took fifty minutes. Perhaps they caught the Eurostar to Paris to pick up the pastry and then harvested the oats from scratch.
It wasn’t as if I’d asked for anything ambitious. I only wanted porridge and a croissant. For some reason, this took fifty minutes. Perhaps they caught the Eurostar to Paris to pick up the pastry and then harvested the oats from scratch.
I wouldn’t have minded if they’d apologised, or kept me in the loop. When I told the waitress how long I’d been waiting, she didn’t flinch. I then asked her for another coffee, which never came. She was the only one capable of easing our transition from wish list to transaction and she didn’t want to do it.
I obviously don’t have enough middle class aspirations to inspire quick Café Rouge service. If I had a son called Barnaby who drank bébéccinos, it would be a completely different story.
*In looks, not attitude.