People are hypocrites! Most of us.

I knew it was time for a second breakfast.  Yes, dear reader, I eat way too much!

I exited, and drove through the picturesque central part of the small town that was.  Nothing along the four blocks appealed to me.

I turned around to check the place one more time.  I suppose it is the gut instinct that comes with the experience of travelling.  Something told me that there was a place right along that street where the food was going to be tasty, and I was not ready to give up.

A sign said Bakery La Petite France.  That's it, I decided.

I parked, and walked in.  A young man, perhaps ready to crossover from the late teens to the twenty, greeted me with a French accent.  I scanned the menu and noticed that the choice of side dish for eggs included ratatouille.  Ever since I watched the movie, Ratatouille, I have not let go of any chance to order that dish if ever it is on a menu.

"How do you scramble the eggs?  Do you add anything?" I asked.  I hate eggs by themselves--they smell too eggy!  Which is why the eggs I make are always with vegetables and cheese.

"We make like an omelette and then piece up" the young man earnestly replied.

I struggled, successfully, to contain my laughter.  "I wonder if you add anything like onions or ..."

He shook his head to mean no.

I figured I would combine the ratatouille with the scrambled eggs.  And placed my order. With coffee, of course.

As I waited for the food while sitting outside by the street, I noticed that if I held my head a certain way, then the lights above looked like a halo around my head.  A selfie was born.

We men, or at least some of us, can be so easily amused.

I was about halfway through the tasty breakfast, and the tasty ratatouille in which the vegetables tasted delightfully fresh, when the chef walked up to me.

In an accent that makes women fall in love with the French instead of us with men with Indian accents, he asked me about the ratatouille after a bonjour.

"Bonjour" I said. "I love it."

"You seen the movie?"

"Of course."

"That mouse is in my pocket" he said with a laugh and pretended to yank the mouse out.

"Perhaps he is still back in the kitchen" I added with a big laugh.

We men folk, from India or from France, are born to make such jokes, which we think are hilarious.  I bet if he had tried that with a woman, she would have merely smiled a polite smile, thinking within that men are stupid!

We men can be so easily amused.

"Where are you from?"

"A long time ago from India. But been here for 27 years" I replied.  "How about you?"

"From Nice. In the south of France.  You been there?"

"Not there. But, a couple of years ago I was in the Dordogne ..."

"It is pretty. The river ..." he said while his hands acted out the meandering river.  He walked back into the kitchen.

I cleaned up my plate, and drank every drop of the coffee.  Life was, yet again, good.

The chef reappeared. "I want you to taste this" he said. "Freshly made tomato soup."

"Tell me the truth.  I can take it" he said pointing to his heart.  "You give people food, they say it is good. Even when they don't like. Damn hypocrites."

He could have cursed the worst curses ever, but his accent and pleasant demeanor will only make them sound like the best compliments ever. I, on the other hand, with my inability to smile, make even the best compliments come across like the worst insults.  I hate these people who can smile away at ease! ;)

As a small, small, small time cook, I could relate to his emotions. When I make anything that I share with others, I always look for honest feedback. Even if the feedback is that I have over-salted.

I took a sip.  It did taste fresh. And it tasted wonderful. I told him that. He walked back in with a smile.

I finished that soup. Sat for a while longer.

As I got up to leave, I looked into the eatery. Deep inside was the kitchen service window and I saw him looking towards the street.  I waved him a big time bye.  As if he was waiting for my action, he leaned out through the window as much as he could and waved back.

I walked towards the car thinking that I, too, hate hypocrites--not merely in food.