Wordsmatter

Years ago when I lived in Germany, my mom came to visit me for a couple of weeks. In an effort to expand her horizons and feed my wanderlust, we ended up in Belgium for a few days. (How that happened is a whole other story.) After luxuriating in the hotel bath followed by a jaunt around the Grand-Place in Brussels, we decided it was time for dinner. We ducked onto a side street and began to evaluate restaurant storefronts as we cruised along with other pedestrians.

Mind you, since neither of us spoke French or Flemish, “evaluating” meant assessing the looks of each place, not reading the menu.

About halfway down the street, a couple of employees standing in the doorway of a reasonable looking restaurant started a conversation with us. After they realized we couldn’t speak French, they continued their entreaties in broken English. “Come in to our…

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