C’est ma faut
by jemma margaret
It has been a long cold week. So there was not much hesitation this evening when a colleague who I intended to meet for coffee suggested getting a “cheap Parisian” (i.e. not cheap) cocktail instead.
Sensibly, she order a mojito, which if France had a national cocktail would surely be it. I, foolishly wanting something strong and not sweet, chose a Manhattan from the menu.
I should have been tipped off by the waitress’s blank stare. Manhattan? I repeated, trying to dull my A’s to something somewhat French sounding (the secret it turns out is to leave out the “h” Mahn-ahttahn (which in fact (en fait) has way more “h”s but so goes phonetic writing)).
Blech. It was definitely the worst cocktail I’ve had since high school.
I cannot totally blame the bar, as much as I’d like to. I mean, where did I think I was? Brew-clean?
Next time I will order a Paris.