There were times in France when I was embarrassed to be American.
One night we were eating in Allard, a nice restaurant in Paris. Two ladies dining next to us started a conversation with us when they heard us discussing the dessert. They were from Ohio and wanted our opinion on what they should order for dessert. When the waiter came to take their dessert order, one of the women pointed to something on the dessert menu and said, "What is this?" The waiter read the name of the dish. She said, "I know what it says, tell me what it is." I was appalled at her attitude. I've never seen a French person in a New York restaurant asking a waiter to explain a dish in French.
The next night we ate at Relais de L'Entrecoat, a tourist-filled steakhouse with only one thing on the menu: steak frites. A similar scene played out again. American diners next to us were asking the waitress to explain the wine list in English. The waitress tried her best for one or two questions. When another question came, the waitress smiled and said to them, "Francais is a beautiful language." Then she walked away.
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