We enjoy her writing, okay? Bodda you?
There's an essay in M.F.K. Fisher's The Gastronomical Me called "Define This Word." It's about Ms. Fisher's encounter with a really, um, passionate and rather aggressive waitress at a tiny hotel in provincial France.
"You cannot, you cannot, Madame, serve old pastry!" She seemed ready to beat her breast as she leaned across the table. "Look at that delicate crust! You may feel that you have eaten too much." (I nodded in idiotic agreement.) "But this pastry is like feathers--it is like snow. It is in fact good for you, a digestive! And why?" She glared sternly at me. "Because Monsieur Paul did not even open the flour bin until he saw you coming! He could not, he could not have baked you one of his special apple tarts with old dough!"
She laughed, tossing her head and curling her mouth voluptuously.
Whether I'm still mired in the service industry or not, I've decided that I'm going to be that waitress when I grow up. Even if I'm Monsier Paul: I'm gonna be that furiously sensual little waitress.
"You cannot, you cannot, Madame, serve old pastry!" She seemed ready to beat her breast as she leaned across the table. "Look at that delicate crust! You may feel that you have eaten too much." (I nodded in idiotic agreement.) "But this pastry is like feathers--it is like snow. It is in fact good for you, a digestive! And why?" She glared sternly at me. "Because Monsieur Paul did not even open the flour bin until he saw you coming! He could not, he could not have baked you one of his special apple tarts with old dough!"
She laughed, tossing her head and curling her mouth voluptuously.
Whether I'm still mired in the service industry or not, I've decided that I'm going to be that waitress when I grow up. Even if I'm Monsier Paul: I'm gonna be that furiously sensual little waitress.