Fred came back. He put on a sympathetic expression. "The chef says he is very sorry. He says that this is not the time of year for baked apples."
"The stands are loaded with apples," the Englishman snorted. "Seen 'em myself!"
"I know. But they're eating apples. Not baking apples. They come later in the fall."
The Englishman doubled his fist and lightly thumped the table. "I said I wanted a baked apple! All I wanted was a baked apple."
"I have explained."
"With cream. A baked apple with cream."
I have seen Englishmen by the dozen go through this sort of routine. With the exception of certain Germans, some of them are, I believe, the rudest people on the earth. Badly brought-up babies—these empire builders.
This one was insulting the waiter and his wife, in the bargain—but I have rarely seen an Englishman who minded insulting his wife by making scenes. When crossed in matters like baked apples they seldom consider wives, children, strangers, decorum, or the reputation of Britannia. They merely behave like twirps.
Fred had said nothing.