Where in the World Is Amy Going Solo Now?
First, look on the lower coast of France, the green country in this blurry map. Toulon is between Marseilles and St Tropez, and Six-Flags-les-Plages is on the coastal tip below Toulon.
Along the residential area of main road in front of the condo complex where my little studio here in Six-Fours-les-Plages, France, faces the Mediterranean Sea, a bus runs up and down between more commercial destinations where shops, cafes, supermarkets, restaurants, etc., take center stage. There is one restaurant nearby, though, called La Grange that had caught my eye from the beginning. It looked fancy, so I had decided to save it for a ‘special’ night when I’d be able to taste things again after I finally conquered a sinus infection.
Last night was that night. With sinus headache dissipated and senses of taste and smell back, I got semi-dressed up. Which means that although I still wore my, blue blouse, thin black hoodie, and black sneakers, I wore black leggings instead of jeans and I put on earrings. It was only a few minutes walk from my door and as I approached, the low lighting and general ambiance confirmed that yes…I wasn’t in a casual coffee shop anymore. I patted my wallet to make sure I’d come ready to spend and approached the hostess.
“Bon soir, je n’ai pas de reservation, mais est-il possible trouver une place for une personne?” I felt ridiculously proud that she actually seemed to understand me without the expected frown and immediate response in English.
“Oui, madame. Une moment, s’il vous plait.”
The hostess guided me to a table along the wall facing the door. “Ici, madame, s’il vous plait. Voulez-vous de l’eau gazeuse ou plate?” I responded that I’d be fine with tap water then caught the eye of a woman across the way who was watching me. I smiled as I realized that I didn’t care at all that everyone else in the place was either part of a couple or family. In my travels I’ve gotten used to dining alone and have come to realize that either nobody is really seeing me or that any discomfort is someone else’s.
In many French restaurants—even informal cafes and coffee shops—a particular day’s main menu options are on big chalkboards and easels that the servers bring to the table when it’s time to order. The menus they had to us are the constants: beverages, appetizers, etc. The hostess gave me a little laminated menu with ‘entrees’ (which in the USA are the appetizers) and a much bigger menu of cocktails, wine, and non-alcoholic drinks. Then the server brought out the easel and chalkboard with tonight’s ‘plats’ (which in the USA translates to entrees—yeah, I know).
This is a photo from the restaurant’s Facebook page, not the menu I needed to decipher, but I wanted to show you how small and squinty the writing is. It IS small and squinty, isn’t it?
The ambient lighting was beautiful, but it was dark in there. And whoever wrote the day’s offerings in a tiny scrawl seemed to know that I would be there already struggling with the French names of food items and descriptions of cooking methods, AND that I need a new prescription for my glasses. I realized the server was standing there watching me, so I looked up and confidently asked her to please tell me what a couple of the words meant. She did, then quickly said (in rapid French) that she’d let me have some time to consider and before waiting for a response, turned to leave.
“Oui. Merci beaucoup,” I said a bit loudly. (But I saw your expression, lady, and I’m not sure I like you.)
Looking at the menus again, I knew it would be a while before I could figure things out. Ah! Wine! That’s something I know. I caught my oh-so-eager-to-serve server’s attention when she passed by. “Excusez-moi, Je sais que je voudrais du poisson pour le diner. Pourriez-vous me recommender un vin blanc local?”
Now you have to understand that I was hearing myself speak French rather flawlessly and was VERY surprised. Of course the whole time I’d been looking over the jumble on the chalkboard, I was creating every word of my next question in French in my head, but still…
“Oui, madame.” She began pointing to this wine and that one on the pages, letting the French fly so fast I could barely understand every fifth word. But I nodded and made little sounds of acknowledgment anyway as I searched for names of wine regions I knew on the menu. I still hadn’t grasped much of her demonstration of wine knowledge, but when her finger landed on the name of a city I knew to be close by, I said triumphantly, “Oui! C’est parfait!”
“Oui!” she exclaimed, then took the drink menu and left once again.
With my wine choice out of the way, I went back to squinting at the chalkboard. There were two “poisson” (fish) choices and I could translate some of the accompanying sauces and things, but I didn’t know what actual kinds of seafood were listed. I looked longingly at my phone and knew that all I had to do was click on a French dictionary. But I shook my head and stopped. I had decided that I would get through this evening without a translation app, dammit, and I was going to—even if I ended up not knowing what I ordered.
Which is what happened. When the server brought me the wine, I was relieved that I actually liked it (I HAD understood her when she’d said the wine was “seche”—dry—and I prefer dry white wine.) But then she made it impossible for me to delay any longer.
“Et vous avez decide, madame?” There was that ‘look’ again—a combination of disdain, doubt, and amusement. I was liking this woman less and less. So I simply said, “OUI!” and pointed to the fish choice closest to my finger.
She smirked—-I mean, smiled. “Oui, tres bien.” And she sashayed away with her chalkboard and easel.
As I usually do while waiting at cafes, I jotted some travel notes and eavesdropped on the conversation at the table next to me. Maybe it was the wine, but I thought I was understanding a little more than I had during other eavesdropping sessions. Or maybe I was getting a bit full of my badass self and my awesome French. Hmmm, the family’s server just brought them dessert and espresso. Surely I can manage later to order that in French, right?
Voila! A man brought a plate with my chosen poisson. He said something I didn’t catch, but his smile was much more genuine, so I smiled back and said, “Oui! Merci beaucoup.”
Hmmm…I thought I ordered fish. Come out, little fishy,
come out, come out wherever you are!
Friends, to this moment I do NOT know what I ate. Whatever it was cost about $30. It took me a while to find actual fish in the puffed round crust made of something. It was hidden among some green kimchee-type strings and some little soft balls of something else. It wasn’t exactly bad, but the tastes and textures were not ones I’d go looking for again. The sauces around the puffy thing were the best part of this main dish. Eventually, I found and ate all the fish—some nondescript white fish—and picked at the rest. By the way, did you know that the French word for poison is “poison” with a ‘z’ sound while the word for fish is “poisson” with the ’s’ sound? Oh, and the French for “Oh, the irony!” is “Oh l’ironie!”
Well, the wine was good. The tap water was tasty. The bread was pretty decent. The wine was good.
The sassy server came with a dessert menu and again let out a stream of quick French, which I gathered was meant to offer dessert and coffee such as my neighbors had. I didn’t want to have a conversation, so I said, “Oui!, Merci.” Evidently, that was sufficient because she put a little chalkboard with a dessert menu on it on the table and left right away. There were five choices and I could understand enough of each to get the gist, so I played it safe and ordered the one with the word “chocolat” appearing multiple times in the description.
As I nibbled at the little slivers of chocolate cakes and the few berries, I chuckled a bit as I realized I’d mistaken the word “framboises” for strawberries (They’re raspberries.) and was amused in general about my whole dinner “a la francaise” experience. But wait! Where was the espresso?
Madame Snooty showed up with another question I didn’t understand. I was in no mood, so barely waited until she finished shooting her rat-a-tat-tat of French this time and just said “Oui!”. She replied with a knowing look, responded with “Oui!” and left.
Once again I was waiting for the unknown. Had I just agreed to get the bill or did I order something else? By that time I was resigned to having a hefty total for this evening’s experiment, so I put my credit card on the table and waited with my own secretive smile while wondering what my last “Oui!” had ordered for me.
I mean, the wine was good, right? Oooh la la! OUI! OUI! OUI!