His wife takes my money at the counter, and encourages me to add an Orangina to my order. I don't, because I can't look at the bulbous bottles without thinking of my husband, who used to pronounce it orange-jī-na, to make me giggle. I feel bad when I don't tip her, but at this point in my life, I can't afford to tip for counter service. She looks and sounds exactly like the woman that played Mary of Guise in Elizabeth, and I'm intimidated by her.
I watch the cook make crepes while I wait. He dispenses batter in perfect circles, and after it firms up slightly, slices bananas for filling. His fingers are so deft and quick that I don't even see the blade move. After the first time I watched him, I looked up the name of the special rake-shaped tool he uses to spread the batter. I was disappointed to learn it's called, predictably enough, a crepe spreader.
The creperie is conveniently located across from a salad restaurant, so if I'd like, I can sit at the window while I eat, and watch better dressed, healthier lunchers meet up to dine on more nutritious fare.
I usually get it to go, instead.
I haven't worked up the nerve to tell them to hold the pickle. I made the mistake once of asking the owner to hold the Bechamel sauce, because I thought it was some kind of mayonnaise. He enthusiastically disabused me of this notion, explaining that it's just flour and milk. When I told him that, in that case, the Bechamel sounded great, actually, he decided I needed extra sauce on my Croque Monsieur. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the standard dosage would be just fine. Now every time I order, he reminds the cook, "Extra Bechamel for mademoiselle!" And winks at me.
I don't want to seem ungrateful or fussy, but I don't want them to waste their pickles, either, particularly if I'm already taxing them for more than my fair share of Bechamel.
I looked up "gherkin" because I seem to remember it has an alternate French name, as well. It does. Cornichon.
Take that, crepe spreader.
