Absinthe Friends

by Hugh Todd

It’s his hauteur that gets to me.

Yes, I do believe he considers himself one of the élite.

One could hardly find anyone more bourgeois.

And his ridiculous moustache!

Don’t know what his fiancée thinks of that.

Or his pince-nez! They went out with frock coats!

Have you caught a whiff of his eau-de-cologne?

Definitely passé.

He has his little coterie.

It’s all that cozy bonhomie he exudes. Some people obviously fall for it. You see him and his little entourage along the promenade most Thursdays.

I’ve heard they frequent the Hermitage café.

Oh, yes, but the latest news is that the chef now refuses to serve him. A disagreement over an omelette, so I hear.

I heard it was flambéed and it singed his whiskers. He made such a fuss the Maître de had to throw him out bodily.

The funniest thing is that when he loses his sang froid he degenerates into a rather crude patois. Not quite comme il faut.

Here’s a little gem. He writes under the nom-de-plume of Roger Myall.

Myall! The would-be gastronome? I tried making his blueberry tarte, and it was a complete disaster. Although I must confess I couldn’t find any absinthe.

Absinthe makes the tarte grow fonder?

Remember the time he wrote ‘brassière’ instead of ‘brasserie’? He’ll never live down that faux pas.

It’s hard to imagine haut cuisine being at all his forté.

Well, time to go. Thanks for this little rendezvous. These tête-à-têtes quite restore my joie-de-vivre.

Yes, nothing like finding the mot juste.