A nighttime path lined with bottled stars. Gravel underfoot. A scarf wrapped around shoulders.
: the backyard space of Coco, a French restaurant in Buffalo, Ny.
My parents invited us to dinner last night. They will go to France next week, so perhaps France was on their mind when they chose this little bistro in Allentown.
When our waiter came over to take our drink orders, we all noticed his accent. ¨Is he French?¨ my dad asked.
I thought Irish or German. I didn´t know; his accent was a conglomerate it seemed of many places. It was not until he said the word, ¨Frites¨ that we knew he was French.
Then, to Vincent, as he took his plate, he used a gentle, ¨Merci.¨ It was double confirmed then.
Later, when he came back to give me bread, I threw down a ¨Merci beaucoup¨ and then he said ¨avec plasir¨ and it was like something had been broken, some separation that exists in the contract between waiter and diner.
Quickly, he spoke in French to Vincent and me. I could understand most of it. How long have you lived in the U.S.? Him, a year. Vincent, five. His wife is American. He asked me if I were American and I said ¨Oui.” Then I said, ¨Mes parents sont vont (except I said allez) a France le prochaine semaine¨ but he looked confused so I translated it to English, but then he nodded, like he had already understood that.
It´s lovely to speak French to people and I´ve started practicing again with Memrise. This week I am diving into ¨My Paris Kitchen¨ and cooking some desserts. I will keep you posted . . .you can look forward to my adventure as I make French cheesecake. I am definitely entering a time of trying to connect with the French lifestyle again, so if you are French or speak French, please write in and tell me some of your favorite dishes or customs. I think I may start drinking coffee out of a bowl in the morning. Au revoir and bonne journee!