I want to eat!

As I walk into the restaurant “Les Arcades,” I realize that I’ve only been in France for thirty-some odd hours and don’t yet know the rules of public dining. Do I seat myself, ask for a table, or just stand there looking pretty? And, if I have to ask for a table, how do I word the question? Is it as simple as saying, “Juste pour une”? 1

I have my phrasebook in my purse, but I don’t want to turn on the big neon “Tourist” sign over my head just yet by pulling it out for everyone to see. Besides, I got an A in French 12 and took two university-level French courses last year. How hard could this be? I am way beyond “bonjour,” “merci beaucoup,” and “au revoir.”2

But, as I approach the man at the bar, French 12 seems further away than elementary school, and I remember that my two university courses didn’t involve much conversation. My French is only good on paper.3

I mumble an “Umm....” and begin to stutter what I intend to be, “Do I need to ask for a table?” If I had known I’d only make it through the “Do I...” I could have at least used the French “Est-ce que...” instead. When I trail off, the man begins pointing me to the other end of the bar, towards a cash register.4

Is that where I’m supposed to ask for a table? I wonder. But there’s no one down there... I don’t know how to say either phrase in French, and my previous attempt at my native language didn’t go well either. I might as well pretend I’m mute.5

I begin to take a few small, slow steps down to the other end. I look back at the bartender for reassurance. He keeps motioning me down further, even once I’ve reached the cash register.6

“Eet’s normal...” he says. “Go een.”7

I look to my left.8

Why is he motioning me into the kitchen? How is this normal?9

I walk in, and the team of cooks seems just as confused to see me enter their workplace as I am to have been sent there. They alternate their glances between me and each other. Their French words get lost somewhere between my ears and my brain.10

I stand in the middle of this kitchen with the insecurity of a little girl separated from her mother at the mall. I am a tourist outside her comfort zone of pick-your-preferred-language voice recordings, or bilingual airplane messages and cereal boxes. I can’t just press 1 for English, wait for the inevitable translation, or turn the box around.11

“Where are you from?” one man asks me in heavily accented English.12

“Canada...” I say slowly, as if I don’t know the answer. They probably think I’m from the States, and I regret not buying a Canadian flag pin, or getting a maple leaf tattooed on my forehead.13

My eyes scan the room. I look at all the faces staring at me, and try to figure out how to explain why I’m there when I don’t even know why I’m there. I don’t think my phrasebook has translations for “The bartender told me to,” “Don’t shoot the tourist,” or “I come in peace...”14

Then, I think I realize what is going on. Maybe I’m supposed to order my food directly from the cooks! But I have no idea how to say what I want to order. I picked it out on the menu outside the restaurant, but in all this frenzy, I don’t remember how to say it. I start looking around for signs of a menu.15

“Do-do you have a...a menu?” I ask, but no one seems to understand me. “I forget what I’m ordering...”16

By this time, servers are crowded around the door behind me, and everyone in the kitchen is staring at me from the front. I am surrounded. Everyone is watching me win the award for “Most Awkward Tourist of 2007,” hands down.17

I feel my face grow warm, and I know it’s not because of the heat radiating from the cooking equipment. I can only imagine the amount of colour my face is adding to the bright white and silver of the kitchen.18

Finally, a tall waiter with dark brown hair and French facial stubble steps slightly forward and asks, “Do you need zee bahzroom or somezing?”19

“No...” I raise my voice to a near yell, with a hint of awkward laughter, and my French decides to make an appearance. “Je veux manger!”20

“Ooooh!” Everyone says in a collective moment of understanding.21

“I want to eat” would have been too blunt at the start of the evening, but it’s easily forgiven now. I’ve served my entertainment purpose for the evening, but everyone needs to get back to work.22

I allow myself to laugh a little as the tall waiter leads me to a table and gives me a menu. Several minutes later, I order a mispronounced entrecôte grillée. I hate French R’s and double L’s, but I love steak.23

I slightly redeem myself with my off-book “à point” when he asks how I want my steak prepared. Even so, my big neon “Tourist” sign flashes bright red as he walks away, giving my face an equally bright hue. 24

For a moment, I wonder if things would have been better if I’d started with “Est-ce que...”