He was a responsible person and declined my offer to feed him. However, he did promise to come over afterwards.
Upon arriving chez moi, he announced, “J’ai faim! J’ai pas encore mangé.” (I’m hungry! I haven’t eaten yet.)
“Tu veux quelquechose…?” (Do you want something…?)
“Tu as quoi?” (What do you have?)
Not having much food with little to no preparation time, he turned down most of my suggestions. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “J’ai du fromage! Et du pain!” I thought he could make a delicious fromage (cheese) and pain (bread) sandwich for dinner, as it was exactly what I had for lunch.
“Cheese? Now? It’s not the right time for cheese,” he told me, a little offended by my suggestion.
“Oh really? What then is the right time for cheese?”
The right time for cheese is after dinner, but before dessert. I should have already known that he would say this, as every time I’ve been invited to eat at a French household, that is precisely the moment cheese is served.
Yet another reason I’ll never be French. I eat cheese regardless of the hour, and have on many occasions enjoyed a meal composed simply of bread and cheese.
To think I use to fancy myself très française when I enjoyed a dinner of cheese, baguette, and, of course, a glass or two of vin rouge (red wine). Le sigh.
My not-so-French-after-all French dinner