Something to Declare

Danny Robins has a certain je ne sais quoi. ILLUSTRATION: SPENCER WILSON / SYNERGY ART

THERE ARE TWO TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE world: those who make an effort to learn another language, and the British. I’ve been trying to buck this national stereotype recently, by brushing up on my French.

I remembered some phrases from school, but unless a situation arose where I wanted to tell my pen pal that I enjoy playing table tennis and listening to records, they wouldn’t have been much use. So, I bought a book with a CD attached and even signed up for some lessons. It all seemed to be going quite well, and this week I felt confident enough to call up a real French restaurant in France to try to book a table in French. Yes, be impressed.

As I dial the number, I’m like a special-ops commando about to storm an enemy base. I’m prepared, focused, I know what I have to do – which is book a table for two, preferably by the window. Nothing is going to stop me (unless they’re fully booked, of course).

“Bonjour, je voudrais réserver une table, s’il vous plaît,” I say, affecting an accent I like to think makes me sound suave and cool like Eric Cantona but I suspect, in reality, makes me sound like the policeman from ’Allo ’Allo.

Then, horror. The voice on the other end says something back that I completely and utterly don’t understand. Suddenly, I see the flaw in my plans – I have practised only my side of the conversation.

“Would you prefer it if we spoke English?” the voice says. Arrgh! Of course, his English is perfect. I feel so ashamed. He probably thinks I’m some idiot Brit calling up to check they don’t use too much garlic in the food.

“Non,” I say, resolutely. “Je voudrais parler français, s’il vous plaît.” Very tolerantly, the voice continues to deal with me in slow French and I just about stumble through to the end of the conversation, by which time I’m feeling a lot better and I’m pretty sure I’ve booked a table for two and possibly even at the right time on the right day. I’m just spelling out my name when the voice cuts in impatiently, in English.

“I know how to spell Robins.” “Oh yes?” I say. “Yes, I’m Irish,” he replies. And this is when I realise I’ve crawled through 10 minutes of painfully bad French with an Irishman – a man who speaks the same language as me. All my efforts have been for nothing. Right, that’s it I think, mentally chucking my French CD into the bin, I give up. “You don’t use too much garlic do you?”