Day 19    

   Now about the Blanc et Noir sausages. They're very good but the table service was a bit funny that night.

   The French have all manor of contraptions to sweep bread crumbs off the table cloth before desert and such. The waiters are usually quite good at what they do.
 
   What he ended up doing was vigorously rubbing into a pure, white linen tablecloth, a tiny piece of food that happened to be made with blood. So he was actually rubbing it into the tablecloth and making it all that much worse. Geez, after awhile he was rubbing faster and harder. What a show.

   What made us laugh is that the Noir sausages are dark because they're made with blood. For some reason a tiny piece had landed on the white linen tablecloth and when the waiter saw it he reappeared with a linen napkin who's end had been run under water so that he could remove the stain, taking away such an unsightly morsel from the white background.
 
   After dinner we split up outside, Bertrand was walking home, an hour, because he enjoys it and the thundershowers had passed.

   On our way to the Metro a fellow stopped me to ask a question, when I looked up he took one look at my face, made a sound to match the contortions on his face as if to say "There's no way this couple could ever answer my question". Maybe he wanted to discuss the future of XML, I'm not sure.
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