“What have you been doing?” I asked gently.
Bertha said, “I never was so damn mad in my life.”
“What happened?”
“I went to a restaurant.”
“Again?”
“Well, I thought I’d better look around. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, and I’ve heard so much about some of the famous places in New Orleans.”
“What happened?”
“The food was wonderful,” Bertha said, “but the service—” She snapped her fingers.
“What was wrong with it? Wasn’t there enough of it?”
“There was too damn much! It was one of those places where the waiters try to make you feel on the defensive. They treat you as though you were a worm in an apple. ‘Now, Madame should have this,’ ” she said, in an attempt to imitate a waiter speaking with a French accent. “ ‘Madame wall, of course, want white wine with the fish, and red wine with the meat. Perhaps, if Madame is not familiar with the vintages, Madame will accept my selection?’ ”