Eating your words

Proven: I won't starve in France, despite not speeking my neighbors' lingo. French inarticulation syndrome. Tonight I successfully ordered a Christoforo Grande (the big, not the small; chorizo is the recipe's star performer, under a duvet of cheese) from the Wednesday-night pizza truck. Wherein enacts a stage performance consisting of a woman who takes the orders and prepares the pies; her husband, who cooks and tends the pies; and this kid from the neighborhood who hangs around, apparently infatuated with the dog asleep in the cab. It was a warm October night. A smothered moon. Perfect for Halloween, a few weeks from now. I "bon soired" anyone else who showed up; politesse goes a long way in our small town. Simone is in Amsterdam, speaking at a conference, so I'm on my own. Monolingual. Yet eight slices full.