Bloody foreigners

by Chris Morvan

Technically, you couldn’t argue with what was presented to me for dinner. I had ordered skate with black butter and capers, and the waitress had assured me it came with vegetables – or at least I think she had, because she was speaking French and my grasp of the language is functional but I can still get lost amid the flurries of strange words punctuated by the extended “errrr” they use to tell you they are still speaking but thinking about what comes next.

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