When I mentioned to the man that his crepes looked like giant flour tortillas, the kind that my mom made back home, he came out from behind the three round hotplates in his booth and began to bang on a metal table with his spatulas, the same spatulas that he’d just used to flip and fold my crepe. He was livid, had obviously missed the section at chef school that regarded customer service and positive business models.
“It is not zee tortilla, it is zee French crepe,” he yelled in the most irritating nasal groan ever communicated in the history of language. “It is not zee Mexique. It is French!”
He delivered the rest of his tirade in French, drowning out the noise of the passing traffic with the smack of his spatulas against the metal table.
I retaliated by cupping my hands around my mouth and yelling, “It’s a flour tortilla, bro!”