Man's Best Friend Dines Out
As you may know if you read the prior post, my dog failed his first dining out test.
Big time. However, in a country that loves dogs of all persuasions, our pup’s soft white fur and big brown eyes stop old women and small children in their tracks. He quickly learns that “Comme, il est mignon!” means he gets petted behind the ears and, if very lucky, a treat from a market bag.
Folly adapts to France wholeheartedly. What dog would complain about living in a country filled with paté and foie gras? Which, incidentally had been the original bribe to get him here. Before we flew to France we told him that if he would just behave on the plane he would get paté as his award. When he curled up in his carryall in the cabin and slept quietly for the eight hours, we had new evidence of his intelligence.
Although he was welcomed, after that disastrous restaurant experience, we stuck to sidewalk cafés which bring a refreshing bowl of water for him. That's simply normale. However, the five stars in our doggy dining system goes to an unpretentious café on the French autoroute leading to Provence.
My husband and I followed the cafeteria line to order coffee and croissants but I spied a corner table and leave John to pay so I could keep Folly out of the way and tranquil. I tuck him under the table, sit down, and see John trotting back with our breakfast tray.
He no sooner sets it on the table than we notice the counter waitress heading across the room. We look at each other. American habits of decades forget for the moment that we are in France and thoughts take on a staccato pace: Dog. Restaurant. Thrown Out.
But the young serveuse is carrying a tray and smiling. We blink and look again at the tray’s centerpiece. With personal attention worthy of the finest dining establishments, she serves Folly a bright red bowl of a dog’s best vintage water. It is accompanied by two doggie biscuits, neatly presented on a white paper napkin.
Michelin, eat your heart out.