The following passage appears on the inside cover of the English-language menu of La Chicoree, one of Lille's many fine restaurants:

"The Chicoree create in 1906, became a institution lilloise. With the service non-stop for the day and the night, it's the appointment of artists.

The Chicoree can received some groups of 50 at 250 persons (some private room) for your lunch, reunion, breakfast.

Some free places for yours bus and some park cars for yours groups.

The Chicoree can make a good moment in Lille.

Kinds regards, the team of Chicoree."

This summary invites a variety of questions. Who are these artists, and what sort of appointments do they have? Was this translation actually a team effort, and is its quality a commentary on the caliber of that team? Did the server see me steal this from the menu, and will I be allowed back?

However, after a week of fine dining in Paris, I've warmed considerably to La Chicoree's efforts, problematic as they may be, to reach out to their English-speaking guests. Indeed, I was surprised that some restaurants did not forego French menus entirely, given that American diners seemed to outnumber natives. On more than one occasion, I overheard a waiter give a breakdown of the menu in English to one table, and be asked to repeat the same thing when he moved on to the next one.

While there's something to be said for throwing caution to the wind and ordering a three-course meal without any idea what's coming, it's hard to blame those who ask for clarification. During her first meal in France, my visiting aunt opted for a variety of sausage that she'd heard was a local special, only to discover that it contained a number of organ meats that tend to offend the sensibilities of the American palate. Having spent the semester on a student-budget diet, I was as clueless as anyone else about the menus of upscale establishments. The few words of broken English next to an item that assured me I was not ordering the cow tail platter or filet of horse were a welcome feature.

Still, I felt a pang of sympathy for the servers that had been pressed into bilingual duty on their own turf. In a country where prominent chefs have a history of committing suicide when they feel they've failed to meet expectations, it must be maddening at times to have one's culinary masterpieces rejected offhand by foreigners who are leery of a little kidney meat or blood sausage. Throw in a badly overweight American tourist crammed into a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and creating a horrific eyesore at an otherwise-picturesque street café, and it's a wonder that some of these places don't feign linguistic ignorance for the sake of their own sanity.

So I made an effort to meet them halfway. Even when greeted in English, I asked questions and ordered in French. I attempted to dress appropriately. I tried to appreciate French cuisine not as a commodity to be bought but as an experience to be savored. American restaurants tend to rush customers in and out the door, which gives diners license to be as callous and as classless they like during the process. In France, more is expected on both sides of the equation. It takes more effort and more diligence, but when it comes together, it can certainly make a good moment for everyone.