After close to 3 hours having to tolerate an annoying toddler crawling under the table we shared, playing with the window shade, dropping his toy cars in my direction hoping I wanted to play cars with him for the next 2 hours, yelling out "vache!" Every time we passed a herd of cows, and watching Mamam give her son several smacks on the side of the head and telling him to knock it off, I needed a meal, preferably with wine. All I'd eaten was a croissant and coffee in the dining car and that was done primarily to get a break from the child.
I know of a fairly recent book about how French mothers raise their children to be proper little angels, willing to eat raw onion without complaint and born potty trained if you can believe it. Sort of in the same league as that silly book about why French women don't get fat.
Well, today's ineffectual and exasperated Maman put a lie to such hyperbole once I saw her give Junior a good one on the right ear. I already have my own theory as to why French women don't get fat. A, too many of them smoke, and, B., well, they are surrounded by good food everywhere so they don't need to binge because it's never going to go away.
Well, on the Blvd Beaumarchais I decided to chain Wm where I could see him, booby trap the bike with my helmet in case of a smash and grab attempt and go have lunch at a Languedoc restaurant that was still serving its midday formule at 2pm. It's always cheaper to eat the plat of the day at lunch, rather than wait for dinner, so that's exactly what I did.
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