The haughty waiter who treated us with withering condescension during the salad course was practically groveling later in the evening, as the clock ticked on and our dinners were nowhere in sight. We didn't care about the dessert because the duck breast was superb and Jennifer's grilled nicoise tuna was perfect. It was a dinner almost worth the long wait. But then it happened again the following week. Different waiter, longer wait.
Haricots verts means green beans.
Pommes frites means french fries. We know what they mean. We ordered an appetizer, a ball of baked, fluffy goat cheese served in a glass bowl surrounded by gnocci pasta and a fresh-tasting tomato sauce with lots of fat chunks of cooked tomato. And four stingy little toasted crusts of bread. Steve likes butter with his bread and grew miffed when the waiter took forever to find the two little foil-wrapped pats he finally delivered.