“Je voudrais le Filet de beouf Rossini s’il vous plait” I requested in the best GCSE Grade ‘C’ French that the English comprehensive school system can offer.

“And ‘ow would you like that cooked?” replied the waiter, who had brilliantly determined where I was from, despite my excellent pronunciation. He must have had a good ear.

“Oh, right, err, medium plea…er s’il vous plait”

This was my only chance to order dinner in French as we were staying in a catered chalet and this was the only night off for the English staff who were cooking for us each evening. I could also have asked him where the swimming pool was, or told him that my sister is fourteen and likes horses, but that would not have been very helpful and he would probably have though I meant eating them not riding them.

About twenty minutes later the waiter returned with a lump of fillet beef that had, I assume, spent the day on the surface of the sun. The French are notorious for having their meat rare, so ordering a medium steak should have led to possibly receiving a very bloody steak. If you order a rare steak in France you should be torn between eating it and calling a decent vet.

However, this restaurant had made the assumption that as an Englishman I did not understand food, so actually wanted my beef well done. Very very well done.

“Excuse moi, this steak is well done. I wanted medium, there is no pink in there at all.”

“Oh, Je suis désolé, I weel just get it replaced.”

A further 10 minutes went by, and when he returned a second time I had two thin steaks stacked on top of each other, where previously I’d had one thick steak. Once again it was well done. The restaurant was killing animals needlessly! The bastards. I could almost feel the stare of a doe-eyed cow staring at me pleading, “Don’t refuse this one, I don’t want to die as well”. Fortunately, I got over it, and called the waiter over.

“Right, I don’t want this. Take it away, and I don’t want another one, I’ll eat the leftovers from my friends.”

They didn’t charge me for either of the steaks, or two of the bottles of red wine that had been ordered, which went some of the way to make up for me having to eat part of a leftover pizza, some spaghetti bolognese and the remaining bits of a green salad.

This is just another reason why I remain convinced that the French are conspiring against me.