"Oui," I say, and watch as a cascade of crepe batter hits the steaming iron-round. I think back to freshman year in Forbes, standing in front of the grill in my bedroom slippers. There was a rhythm to be followed when ordering your waffles, an etiquette that dictated the request for omelet add-ins. A few weeks in, the pattern settled. You no longer felt the need to rehearse asking for extra onions and egg whites before it was your turn. The Crepe Man is different. Our first conversation:
"Deuxeurossoixantedixseptcentimes." Two Euros, sixty-seven centimes.
"Quoi?"
"J'aiditDeuxeurossoixantedixseptcentimes." I said, "Two Euros, sixty-seven centimes."
The burly woman in line behind me shifts testily. She looks like she could take down about 90, maybe 95 irate toddlers without breaking a sweat. I cut my losses, scoop a random selection of euro coins out of my wallet and sidestep the Toddler Tank behind me. Crepe Man waves me back. I brace myself.
"Nonvousavezpayetroptenezlareste." No, that's too much. Here - take the rest.
"Non, je vous paie." No, I'm paying you.
"Jesaismaisjevouzdisquevousavezpayetropdonctenezlareste." I know, but I'm telling you paid too much, so here, take the rest.
I glance at Crepe Man, then at the money in Crepe Man's hand, then at Toddler Tank. Toddler Tank stares back, then pointedly shifts her gaze toward the money in Crepe Man's hand. I point weakly at the coins.
"C'est gratuit?" It's free?
I haunted an alternate crepe stand for a week afterward, for fear of running into Toddler Tank again. After returning for several weeks' worth of oeufjambonfromage at Crepe Man's stand, he and I had our second conversation. Alone under the balcony of his kiosk, staring at the batter cooking on the iron between us, I ventured an insight.
"It rains lots today, does it not?"
"Yep. Pretty bad out."
We return to watching the crepe.
As he hands me the final product, Crepe Man winks. Pushing my two euro sixty-seven centimes across the counter, I make a second attempt.
"I am called Becca. "What your name is?"
"Paldrizxoirtsiri."
I lean in. "What?"
"Paldrizxoisrjsrtsrjoheirii."
I swear it got longer the second time he said it. "What?"
"Paldrizxoisrjsrtsrjoheirii."
I nod. "Ok," I say. "Yes." Paldrizxorytejsteqsteisrjseairtsyrjoheiryi. Got it.
And over the weeks following our second conversation, I find myself in a predicament similar to the "frequaintances" phenomenon at school. At Princeton, I'll sit next to people on a weekly basis in the dining hall or sit next to in the computer lab, but after a semester realize I've only conversed with them for a few minutes in total. A tenuous etiquette develops in which extensive conversations are almost unseemly. An unspoken understanding is reached that neither party remembers the other's name, yet both agree it would be a breach of conduct to actually ask the other frequaintance for his or her name. "Pal" and I have entered into this strange intimacy, made stranger by my cryptic grammar and his propensity to accuse his clientele of lying. Starting from a certain day, he and I have called each other liars. It's unclear to me why we do this, or how this ritual wove its way into our quotidian banter, but the accusation can be applied to almost all of our interactions:
"I hear it will rain tomorrow."
"Liar."
Or: "I already paid you!"
"Liar."
Pal and I think it's funny.
Standing under the shelter of the kiosk, my hot oeufjambonfromage crepe cradled in one hand, I've wondered - if the language barrier were lifted - whether we would laugh at our joke, or whether we would talk at all. Luckily my grammar continues to be choppy and Pal still likes accusing people of calumny. Hence, our relationship has progressed: One day, after my American girlfriends and I had made our orders, Pal swiveled towards us and called out:
"Vous etes pressees, tous?" Are you all in a rush?
"Non," we chorused.
"Attendez deux minutes," he said, rushing toward his deep-fryer. Two minutes later, he beckoned me forward from the group.
"Pour partager," he said. To share. I looked at the paper bag in my hands, stuffed with 12 fresh churros. My friend reached for her wallet. "Non, non." Pal shook his head. "Ne vous en faites pas." Don't worry about it. Handing me a cup of dipping chocolate, he waved us off. Every day since then, Pal has given us free churros.
Today, standing in front of the round-irons, waiting for my oeufjambonfromage, I realize I haven't yet confessed to Paldrizxorytejsteqsteisrjseairtsyrjoheiryi that I am leaving in January. I push my two euro sixty-seven across the counter. Pal smiles, hovering by the fryer.
"Vous etes pressee?"
"Non," I say. "Je peux rester." I can stay.
"Liar!"
We laugh, and the churros start to sizzle.
Becca Foresman is a French and Italian major from San Diego, Calif. She is studying abroad this semester in France and can be reached at foresman@princeton.edu.
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