That restaurant looked like a mausoleum, a tomb full of mourning waiters trying to hold in a smile and silent families. In all honesty, Europe's a country completely overrated. My dad's idea to get his kids more cultured was by flying a private jet to France. Aka planet of the Jerk Jacques. Their eyes stab us with looks of contempt and superiority.  My appearance can be described as the complete ideal that France believes about America. I'm the smartest above my two brothers, and better at understanding  life.
Time for a flashback or a changeover in the story as they call it in the film industry.  My birth happened eighteen years ago in a hospital as white as my new born eyes. I lived in the definition of suburbia. White picket fences, old southern houses with a  failing garden in front. My body became the punching bag to Tim, my older brother. I soon took on Karate, beating him easily. Standing my ground using my fists. Life improved when Tim came into the world. All the pressure flew  off me since my position rose to being the middle child.  The VP of my siblings in which no one really paid attention to.  I developed my one ideals and philosophies, not wishing to take on the conformity of my family. My style could be described as über casual. Pop culture tees paired with jeans and chucks. A Pink Floyd or Black Keys album on vinyl and that describes me. A longing for nostalgia I never experienced. I preferred Vonnegut over a teen novel. Cynicism and optimism mixed in my brain. A vortex of the world in the present and the mysticism of the past. Nonconformity was my model based on a day to day being one of the millions in a uniform.
I am quite the opposite of Catholic high school.  My faith's nickname appeared as Liberal Catholic or Catholic-Light. Episcopalian. It also applied to my personality of detaching myself from my family. No high ruler for me. The uniform represented everything that I hate. Looking like a sea of navy and khaki. At least it was my senior year, two months left thank God.  That is enough about me. Now let's continue with my family.
My father appears as a figure on the cover of Forbes. Wearing the charcoal grey suit, slight grey hairs around the jet black, with an iPhone in his hand. My older brother, Tim, conveyed the frat look. Aviators hanging up as if a second pair of eyes, a Southern Tide shirt hangs around his well built machine body with a pair of khakis and dock shoes.  The youngest, Tom, only existed as a perfect clone of Tim. A brain small enough for a person, especially two. Mom made the most sense of my family. She contained the brains of my unit and troop.  A stay at home mom who practiced yoga since it became the hip thing.  She owned a business before I was born, but sold it so she could spend more time with us.
After landing in the terminal, my brother asked "Where are all the mimes? What happened to the berets, red scarves and black striped shirts?" 
I promptly told him to quit sounding so stupid. I received a loving slap from my brother demonstrating his hatred of insubordination. Only a couples of months left I told myself.
Soon, we decided to take out our iPhones and check for a restaurant. The top hit appeared, Nous Cracher Dans Vos Américains Slimentaires. Apparently the lost generation frequently visited this restaurant during the 20's. That peaked my interest. A taxi ride in a country looks like a rocket in space, a vehicle staring at alien planets and people. 
I understood why Hemingway and Fitzgerald visited this place. The restaurant embodied the word hopelessness. Rusty chairs that could give you tetanus and tables about to collapse. I heard waiters laugh after saying "Je crache dans la nourriture de la graisse américain." 
I could feel the false sense of culture that emitted from my parents. Just being regular tourists. I viewed the French Riviera. Taking in the beautiful view until the stench it me. Years of treating water as a toilet will cause this reaction to happen. The waitress's lame colored hair over took her face. In a failed attempt, she mocked my family by speaking "What can I get you partners to eat" in a horrible Texas accent.
The menu, a piece of paper surrounded with a force field of plastic, did not look special. But rather different than what I expected of a French Menu. I could tell what my family wanted when I saw a section called the Freedom of Obesity. Bold type face text in red and blue against a white corner of the menu adjacent to pictures of Bald Eagles and Chuck Norris. The only item pictured was named The Bill of Rights Burger. A meal more redneck than the second Amendment. I also saw that it came with the "broche sauce" apparently house made every day. Curiously, I pulled out my phone and googled "broche" and something odd popped up. Spit. The realization came over to me why they were laughing at us. The only item that did not have the "broche" was the Fitzgerald Salad.
All of my family ordered the heart attack on a bun, but I asked for a nice salad. I specifically told her "Se il vous plaît ne pas cracher dans ma nourritu" or "Please don't spit in my food."  I believed this was perfect payback for my dad's failed attempt to teach his family the world.  Trying to understand the country based on cheap tour books and the Internet. After ten minutes or so, the waitress carried our food back to the table. My salad appeared divine while microwave heat marks appeared over their buns.   The table's legs buckled a little when our lunch landed on it. "Bon appétite" our waiter told us.  Our eyes exchanged, allowing me to eat untainted and heavenly food. 

When my dad paid the bill, I noticed how the waitress over charged us for the lunch except for my meal Maybe as an act of kindness towards a foreigner trying to learn a new culture. Or taking advantage of my family's misunderstandings in France.