Friday was a tragic day for me. If you recall from my previous post, I enjoy going to the market and talking to the chicken guy because he seems to understand my Arabic and by some miraculous feat of language I'm able to converse with him. Plus he sells good chicken and it's a lot cheaper than beef.
On Friday Hannah and I went to the market to get some chicken and a few other things. Hannah, whose Arabic is slightly better than mine (and by slightly I mean light years) ordered first. But the chicken guy didn't use the same meat as when I order. So being the nice guy that I am, and not wanting Hannah to get the wrong stuff, I told her that she'd better ask and make sure she is getting the good chicken. They talk for a minute, then Hannah turns to me and politely (she's British so she knows no other way) tells me that in fact, the other "chicken" is actually turkey. I knew that she must be mistaken but remembering a lesson I learned many years ago (you know, the one that says women are never wrong), I asked her to check again because surely it was chicken I've been eating for the past month. So she asks him again, this time in French. Then she looks at me with that sly grin on her face and informs me that indeed, it is turkey that I've been eating.
I wasn't sure how to take the news because all this time I've been calling him the chicken guy. Now what was I going to do? It just didn't seem right to call him the turkey guy. So after ordering my "chicken" (it's still hard to think of it as turkey) I asked him one more question....
The chicken guy is now known as Mohammad.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment