Just give me the butter!

Two college degrees, a lifetime of professional semi-success, perhaps 752 private French lessons and I could finally ask for the jelly.  I can say the word 'confiture."  By the way that means jelly.  I can say jelly.  We do-and should take our victories where we can get them.

Butter was the next challenge.  I really felt on my last trip in May that I had graduated to the point that I could hold a limited conversation with the waiter who took my breakfast order each morning at the Cafe' Metro at Place Maubert.  He was sullen.  And I had no idea he was mistaking my attempts to add the word beurre (butter) to my breakfast repertoire, as the ultimate pick-up line.

I'm an American woman-that middle aged one.  We smile at everyone. (trying to correct that) We are so happy when someone in Paris smiles back perhaps we overcompensate.  And as I am once again trying to pronounce the word "beurre," he, in his still sullen look, leans over my face and whispers gently ..."bisou?" WHAT?? That is a kiss.  "Bisou" means kiss.  He thought I wanted a kiss.  And although I couldn't get the butter I would be able to get the kiss.

I told him I preferred some butter.  And then like all good Americans, I felt guilty.  Obviously I led him on, I smiled too much, too friendly, too thrilled to be sitting in his cafe'.  He didn't mind the refusal but I felt terrible. Naturally I left a big tip and did not return to my favorite breakfast place for the remainder of my trip.  How really stupid of me and the next trip I am marching up to the Cafe' Metro. I'm ordering the petit dejeuner (breakfast) WITH jelly and double butter!