The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. I am at Tim Hortons. "Je prends un thé," I say to barista.

"Quelle type?" she asks.

I would like a mint tea, but I don't know how to pronounce the French word for mint. I know it's written menthe. So I hazard a guess: "... un thé menf?"

"Quoi?" says the confused barista.

"Uh... un thé menf?" I say again. Then I sigh and add: "A mint tea."

"Oh, okay," says the barista and he goes to make my mint tea.

THE NEXT DAY

The next day I try pronouncing menthe again, thankfully with a different barista this time. "Je prends un thé monf," I declare.

"What?" says the harassed barista. Then she laughs. "Oh, you mean mint."

Fuck you and your fucking menthe.

THE NEXT NEXT DAY

I am running out of possible pronunciations. I wonder if menthe can be pronounced "ment".

"Je prends un thé ment," I say. I carefully watch the barista's face for any flickers of recognition.

"Quoi?" says the barista.

How can this be so hard! I'm just trying to order a mint tea!

THE NEXT NEXT NEXT DAY

This time I am confident, having learned the correct pronunciation a YouTube tutorial. "Je prends un thé mont," I say. I even throw in a little wink.

The barista looks at me with a completely neutral face. I hold my breath. This is it, I think. Oh my god, this is it.

Then he says "What?"

I throw my arms up in rage. "MONT! Mont, damn you! Damn you to hell! You know I'm pronouncing it right!"

He tilts his head sideways. Then he chuckles. "Oh, you mean à la mont." 

Yes, yes, à la mont. À la mont indeed. We will see who is laughing when I shove your cardboard cups up your fucking ass.

THE NEXT NEXT NEXT NEXT DAY

This time I don't care what happens. I am defeated. "Je prends un thé à la mont." I sigh.

I wait for the barista's usual “Whaaaaat?" But this time, she simply says, "...ok".

Ok? OK?

YESSS!! I hug the surprised barista and high-five the homeless person next to me. "À LA MONT!" I cry. I run out into the street. "À LA MONT!" I scream into the air. I tear off my clothes and run naked down the street.

"You forgot your tea," says the barista.

I stop an orphan boy carrying wood. "Do you know what MINT TEA is in French?" I ask him. He looks scared. "IT'S THÉ À LA MONT!" I cry, tears of joy streaming down my face.

I hear a police siren. "Please stay where you are sir," the police radio on top of the car crackles. I run away. And as I'm running, I realise that I don't even like mint tea that much. I prefer green tea.