BREAD HEAD
The bakers' (100 short yards from my door), is intent on staying open, in the face of enormous supermarket competition. Yesterday, a man-sized blackboard, perched intrusively on the cobbled step just outside the entrance, announced the latest cunning offer:
3 cormillonnes achetées 1 offerte!
I slipped past, greeting my warmly dressed fellow customers, noting their various reactions to my shorts and tee-shirt, taking their scepticism of my suspect pronunciation on the chin, and prepared to ask for two of these crusty, grainy, wholesome baguettes. How was it that I ended up coming out with four? Outside the shop, having wished everyone a pleasant day, I wondered whether I had finally lost my marbles, and, more usefully, whether I had any butter in the house.
On the way back home, I re-enacted the conversation, deciding that the baker's wife, with her Alan Sugar eyes, was to blame for the bready bulge under my arm. Never mind, I would freeze two and bake them (inevitably to a crisp) when required, in the blast furnace that passes for my oven. Smoke rose alluringly in my worn-out imagination.
The baker is laughing - ha! Sales are up - early retirement beckons.
But what of his gullible, stodged-up customer?
Easy. Next day, I send my husband, who is immune to special offers. He comes back with the requisite number of baguettes, plus a selection of cakes and pastries.
Doh, and doughnuts!
'Four baguettes!'
Haha, the wily ways of the French boulanger :) Love it!
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