The next morning, I had eavesdropped (if it could be called that) on the most asinine and pretentious conversation I had heard in a long time while we waited for our breakfast to arrive. But what would you expect at a place called Petite Provence. How dull was your life that you discussed the rationale behind a child’s flippant use of the word “sure” and then have the gall to pull your already annoyed waitress into the conversation? With all the changes she had asked for on her Wild Northwest Salmon Hash, why hadn’t she just asked for a grilled piece of salmon and a side of fried potatoes in the first place? Why put the poor server through the paces? Yes, I agree, the Strawberry Cheesecake Pancakes are divine. No, sorry, we don’t have side orders of them. How about a smaller portion of the pancakes? Hmm, let me check with the kitchen. Here you go! Oh wait, you wanted it to go?!
Bob was well-meaning (I knew from the get-go why he had chosen the restaurant) when he recommended the cafe but it took Herculean effort to not reach over and slap the woman at the next table. I mean quiet-the-whole-damn-room-slap her. The most I could do was to keep rolling my eyes whenever she opened her mouth. I should have been able to brush if off but we were only on day two of our vacation; the morphine of having five full days away from work was not yet fully coursing through my veins.
The dishes on the menu sounded promising though.
But, like our dining neighbors, the food was highfalutin and more provincial than it was Provencal.
