We sat down and ordered without looking at a menu, a glass of cider for me and coffee for Frances. Kate was, as ever, happily sucking on a bottle of milk. The wait-staff were all French, but unlike our friendly frogs back in Windsor, this mob had definitely been enlisted from the haute cuisine brigade.
Our waiter brought my cider and a French-style plunger pot of coffee with a jug of cream, biscuits, and petit fours. This was a luxurious cup of coffee, to be savored after a sumptuous meal rather than slurped down on a rather stressful road trip.
“Ave you ze booking for ze lunch? No? No problem. You can eat at ze bar. Mais no. Not a river view, iz not possible. Iz all booked.”
“We’ll stay with the drinks for now. Thanks.”
“Az you wish.” A French shrug of the mouth and he was gone.
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