Walking back through the Marais in Paris, after visiting the Musée Picasso, one afternoon, Ian and I stopped to eat at a café called Les Philsophes. Situated on a corner, we sat at an outdoor table and watched the relatively tourist-free (compared to the Left Bank) street. Parisians were buying bread across the street and picking up laundry next door. A man on a bicycle rode by with a basket full of baguettes. He fell over, tossing his crusty loaves about the cobblestone street. People stopped their shopping and laundry picking up to run into the street to help the man up and gather his baguettes, just when our waiter approached our table.
“Quelle est la soupe du jour?” I asked.
He told me what the soup of the day was in his rapid French. But I didn’t understand.
“Pardon?” I shrugged, and gave him a helpless look. “Je suis désolé. Je ne comprends pas.”
He placed his index finger and thumb on his chin and seemed to search the gray sky for an answer. He paused during his thinking to tell me, “One leetle minute.” This was taking more time than either of us thought.
Finally, he pinched his fingers together as if holding something very small and squeezing, as he said, “Leetle brawken pee-ass.”
I stared at him, shaking my head. And then I got it. “Oh. Broken peas! Split pea soup!” I nodded, looking over to Ian.
The waiter’s eyes lit up and he clapped his hands. “Oui! Oui!”
Even if I wasn’t in the mood for split pea soup, I ordered it anyway. After all, the waiter worked so hard and was so excited to find the right words, how could I not? It was very good.
Top Photo of Les Philosphes taken by Charles Halton – http://awilum.com/
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