A few years ago I had dinner with two female friends in St Tropez.
The restaurant was very stylish, one of those where you sit outside along a charming, pedestrian-only street, sip wine, watch the ultra-chic stroll by, and pretend you belong there.
It was a wonderful evening except for the fact that my friends kept rambling on about how incredibly handsome our waiter was. I’m not usually the jealous type, but an entire meal spent talking about an attractive waiter is a bit much don’t you think?
Something else bothered me.
He was apparently so good-looking that they were rendered completely oblivious to his abysmal English. I’m not just lashing out here. My Italian was better than his English and I don’t speak Italian. For the girls, though, the carnage discharged from his mouth that night sounded as smooth and silky as just-served foie gras.
“Oh my god, did you see his eyes?”
“An endless sea of blue!”
“I know! I know! And it’s so obvious he works out!”
“And his English is sooooo good!”
“I know! I know!”
During the first course, thankfully, Mr. Marvelous remained pleasantly absent, resting comfortably, I assumed, in a secret mirrored room reserved exclusively for irritating handsome people.
Then, at just the right moment, he swept in on a cloud of pulchritude to collect our plates. Continue reading