Sunday Musings: The Missing Blanket

  It was 1990, and our first evening in Paris. As we were driven the 32 kilometres from Charles de Gaulle airport to the Paris Hilton hotel, which was to be our abode for the next ten days. Everything we observed was awe-inspiring. All the swanky cars drove fast, but not rash. Despite heavy traffic no one crossed lanes without warning and there was no blowing of horns.
We were allotted a family suite of two inter-connected rooms on the top floor. In the evening we were invited out by my predecessor for dinner. End November is cold in Paris. The steady drizzle further added to the chill. Besides, we had not yet kitted ourselves for the European winter.

After dinner, the wife and I walked back from the restaurant across the Seine River. We arrived at the hotel soaked to our bones and freezing with cold. Our pre-teen daughter had slept on top of a blanket. Not wanting to disturb her, I decided to ask for another blanket and called up the room service.
After exchanging pleasantries with the lady, I said “il fait froid” – it is cold – by way of background. ‘Oui monsieur’ she agreed with professional politeness. Knowing my elementary knowledge of French would not take me far, I switched over to English. “Could we have a blanket please”, I said. After a brief pause, she said, “Excusez-moi un instant, je vous prie” and handed over the phone to someone who apparently was her senior.
There followed another exchange of “Bon soirs”, after which I repeated my request for the blanket. The gentleman repeated “Blaanket…blaanket…” some half a dozen times, as if he was reading through a list to locate the item. After almost a minute, he said in an apologetic tone “Vraiment désolé monsieur, I am truly sorry but we do not seerve blaanket in the room” stressing each vowel in a manner only the French do while speaking English.
By this time, we had begun to feel the comforting effect of the room heating and the cold did not appear as menacing. Though surprised at the inadequacy of service in such a reputed hotel, I gave up on the request.

Next morning our interpreter Mr Basu came to escort me, as I did not yet know how to get to the embassy. I narrated the incident to him and complained about the poor room service in the hotel. He went almost hysterical with laughter. Still laughing, he explained that blanquette is a French veal dish. He ended his explanation with typical Bengali optimism saying that we were lucky they did not serve the blanquette. Otherwise, having been supplied with a helping of the delicacy; we would have also been presented a bill for some 260 Francs.                                                   (Representative images credit-iStock.com)