On our first night at the hotel, we decided to eat in the hotel’s own, rather plush restaurant. The menu being a bit on the heavy side, Alison asked the maître d’ if she could have something light. Pasta, perhaps? “Madame,” he replied brusquely, “we may be just a few kilometres from the border with Italy, but this restaurant is still in France and it serves only French food.” Needless to say, our time in the place was spoiled by that little outburst. As we were leaving, the maître d’ enquired if we had enjoyed our meals. When neither of us responded with a “Oui, très bon”, his face crumpled. “You will not return,” he sighed, almost in tears. Later that night, we saw him prowling along the promenade and taking a sneaky look at the menus posted outside by competing restaurants. I think he was on the verge of a breakdown. The next night, we went out for a pizza.
At the Hôtel West End, Promenade des Anglais, Nice:
On our first night at the hotel, we decided to eat in the hotel’s own, rather plush restaurant. The menu being a bit on the heavy side, Alison asked the maître d’ if she could have something light. Pasta, perhaps? “Madame,” he replied brusquely, “we may be just a few kilometres from the border with Italy, but this restaurant is still in France and it serves only French food.” Needless to say, our time in the place was spoiled by that little outburst. As we were leaving, the maître d’ enquired if we had enjoyed our meals. When neither of us responded with a “Oui, très bon”, his face crumpled. “You will not return,” he sighed, almost in tears. Later that night, we saw him prowling along the promenade and taking a sneaky look at the menus posted outside by competing restaurants. I think he was on the verge of a breakdown. The next night, we went out for a pizza.
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