I said, “What’s this?”
The waiter looked at the plate, looked at me, “Your strawberry foule, sir.”
I said, “I see no strawberry, I see no foule.”
He said, “You’re not from these parts are you? From out of town?”
There was a sneer in his voice I didn’t care for. He had a slight Spanish accent. I hate the Spanish.
I said, “I didn’t invite a conversation, Pancho; I asked you what’s this on my plate?”
“Cool it, Pops,” he said. “You ordered strawberry foule. This is it. It’s nouveau cuisine. Chef’s from Marseilles.”
I hate the French!
This was written in response to this week’s bloody difficult Friday Fiction 100 word challenge.