Parlez vous Francais?

I don’t really speak many languages. Frankly there are moments when even English escapes me. I didn’t do a GCSE in languages, unless you count the one in War poetry and Willy Russell plays. But being a musician and travelophile I do always try to learn the basics. Generally, said basics revolve around coffee, chocolate, nut allergies and asking where the toilet is, but I like to think it’s a start.

Until today, I’d never have believed anyone would travel abroad and not be able to at least make the effort in the native language. Yes, I know at one time Britannia ruled the waves, and as such English, itself a mixture of German and French anyway, spread like the contents of Tetley’s finest across the fine waves of the wedgewood-bordered oceans, but that’s not really the point now, is it?

So the lovely Sarah and I are enjoying lunch. As is becoming customary, we are surrounded by the world’s finest travellers with, to our left, an Australian couple clearly on the last enforced trip before a messy divorce dine of salad and sandwiches.

Then the British arrive. Let’s call them Dierdre and Bill. Now Dierdre and Bill have clearly arrived on some kind of Daily Mail free-be trip to the continent. Clearly they are here to experience French life in its most natural form. They read the menu, which has English translations underneath, and are straight on to the egg-and-chips, ham-and-cheese options. Although cultured compared to the Americans who, whilst gazing at Notre Dame cathedral ealier had said, ‘Oh good. There’s a Subway over there. We can get some proper food for once’, they’re clearly the types trying to be cultural ambassadors for England with one eye on those Brussel bureaucrats (‘keep your Euro hands off our bent bananas’ types), and one on potential asylum seekers.

So when the waitress came over I felt forced to listen carefully. They order two coffees. This, as anyone who has ever studied French for one lesson in school, translates as ‘cafe’ which is an espresso. This arrives at their table spectacularly quickly, and they look at each other nervously. It is Dierdre who pipes up first with, ‘No. Bigger than that’. The waitress, who incidentally is reminiscent of Allo Allo, quickly returns with larger cups of coffee. Double espresso this time. Again, there are nervous glances and then Bill asks for ‘white coffee’. I say he asks, he actually points and says bluntly, ‘No, white’ which is either a factual declaration that what he has in front of him in fact has no white in it being a largely brown-based beverage, or he could have meant ‘I’m very sorry madame, but we appear to have made a mistake and ordered the wrong thing. We meant to white filter coffees’.

The interesting thing is that the waitress turns to us as if we could help her understand what these two crazed English tabloid-reading people want. That’s not in itself interesting, but the fact that for the last half-hour we’ve heard her converse in perfect English with other customer adds to our interest in Bil and Dierdre’s plight. So Sarah, who speaks very good French suggests to the Anglophiles that they wanted white coffee and passes this information on in French.

A brief pause and the waitress returns with a jug of milk. Being naturally apologetic, Bill wants to thank the waitress for her patence and apologise for the fact that he has come to her country as a guest without learning the basics of her language. Unfortunately this comes out in a single word, ‘Good’, which the waitress feels duty bound to repeat in her worst English accent.

Bill and Dierdre then go on to mistakenly believe that they needed to ask for ‘caffe creme’ in order to get coffee with milk, and then order their food. Having gone to the effort of writing an English translation on their menu to aid tourists, Bill pluck up his best French skills and pronunciation, and asks for ‘Ham and cheese sandwich’, pointing at the menu.

Bill and Dierdre, ambassadors for England, and surely candidates for a Unicef sponsored tour of the far-flung corners of the world?