“Bonjour, mademoiselle! Wheat cwarsonts, silvoo play.” I smiled sweetly.
“Wee. Oh and er… du pan… la” I said gesturing to a large rack of bread that was as long as a baguette, but much wider and I didn’t know the name for. I think in the same way that the Inuit have 17 different words for “snow”, so the French have 47 different words for “bread”.
“%@&**;^*&%(!)^*,” she said. I glanced at the till; she’d rung up 7.60. I handed her a 10 Euro note and she gave me change, so I felt smug with my interpretational guesswork.
“Mare see. Oh revwharr!”
“Au revoir, monsieur.”
I think she chose a good loaf especially for me.