I was dashing through the produce section of a well-known local supermarché. Running late, I needed to grab a few fresh vegetables to perk up the leftover ratatouille awaiting in the fridge.
There I spied mounds of tomatoes, many varieties, all perky and red. I quickly squeezed three, and they seemed ripe --not too hard -- so I scooped them up and approached the vegetable-weighing station. I handed them to the produce lady for pricing.
"Mais, madame, vos tomates sont pourries," she warned charitably. Your tomatoes are rotten.
"Oh," I apologized -- embarrassed Yankee food ignoramus to the core. "Je n'ai pas fait attention. I'll get some others." How nice of her to let me know, I was thinking. So I made a bee-line back to the tomato bin and chose some firmer specimens, then placed them on her scale.
She weighed my new selection, put the price label on the plastic bag and handed it to me with a smile. I thanked her profusely. "Merci, madame...."
Then, perfunctorily, elegantly, she returned the rotten tomatoes to the top of the tomato display.