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.

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