I ordered a steak frite. Four months later I was finally brought a bowl of what I think may have been a kind of gazpacho.
When I complained I was rudely rebuffed by the waiter who told me that this was a steak frite. I asked to speak to the manager, who haughtily confirmed that the bowl of tepid oniony liquid on my table was, in fact, a steak frite.
I informed the manager that in the real world, a steak frite consisted of a grilled piece of meat accompanied with a side of french fries, not a bowl of liquified vegetable matter. She told me this was a steak frite at the "Barreau" and that if I didn't like I could leave.
Being quite hungry, I begrudgingly began to slurp away, reading the newspaper to pass the time. I was approached almost immediately by a stout matron with beefy forearms who glowered at me intensely for a moment, then, hands on hips, scolded me for reading my newspaper in front of the chef.
Later, when I got up to go to the bathroom, the matron, standing guard in front of the door, demanded that I leave her a piece of ID as collateral.
Returning to my seat, and despite my intense hunger pangs, I found I simply could not finish the soupy concoction before me. I opted instead for the desert menu in the hopes that it might prove more palatable. Sadly, the waiter refused to take my order on the grounds that I had not finished my "steak frite". I explained that was no longer eight years old and could eat what I darned well please.
Once more I called on the manager, who informed that this was an explicit policy which was clearly printed black on white on a sign which hung in the men's bathroom behind the third urinal to the left. I never saw it!, I protested. The manager rolled her eyes, explained that it wasn't her fault if I didn't check behind the urinals for policy announcements, and promptly fined me $40.
When the bill came I almost retched.
Next time I'll go to Ontario for my steak frite. read more
