A picture of a beautiful naked lady. by Hemingway

Burgers

a picture relevant to this story.

I love burgers.

I don't know what it is about my heritage or upbringing that makes me intensely crave a hamburger every two weeks or so, no matter where I am or what I'm doing in the world. Rufus was the same as me in this regard. When we used to be together, we'd visit every burger joint we could find and we'd critique the quality of various burger offerings. We'd taken it to a level of granular detail that Michelin himself would hard a hard time meeting. After all, a burger is much more than a burger and a bun; there's also the price, the freshness, the service, and of course, the ambiance of the establishment. Indeed, burgers can be as complicated as onions, and by that I'm referring to the never-ending layers. Burgers are the very definition of nuance.

So it was this craving that recently had me take the Transp'Or Line 1 bus from in front of my Palavas hovel, along with a a number of the great French unwashed, to the Perols Etang tram stop which was the terminus of the Montpellier TAM tram Line 3. From there I took up my seat at the front of the the tram with my tram pass in hand and ready to scan should I have spotted an upcoming "control" through the front window as I took the short ride to the Ecopole tram stop that was one of the homes of France's version of McDonalds: Quickburger.

Quickburger (pronounced "queek-burger") made a pretty decent burger for around here; their biggest by far being the "Mega XL" which would have been child-sized in the southern U.S. There were only a few other customers around at this time, mostly because it was 4:30 in the afternoon, so I did not have to wait to order my "Double Tasty", one size down from their Mega XL. The U.S. has got nothing on the French for creative naming, which as I may have mentioned is 70% of everything when it comes to food. My Double Tasty ended up being both regrettable and forgettable, not even up to "Single Tasty" standards, but at least I was sitting in the covered outdoor dining area in the south-of-fucking-France, which was pretty nice.

So far, none of this is notable. It's what happened while I was choking down my 8.50 euro worth of American-styled processed crap that's what was interesting. Out of the resto and right past me walked a couple consisting of a shorter but not fat, but not skinny either, very south-of-France looking girl-woman in her early twenties, along with her tall, muscular, and dark-back boyfriend. This dude was really black. Cameroon black would be positively gray next to this guy. He wasn't Arnie but he had muscles everywhere and his body looked about as perfect as a body can look. Together they got into a gray Peugot 207 with a 34 on the plate, so I knew they were from the French department of Herault. This is because in France, your home postal code is on your license plate, which is awesome. Just imagine that you're driving behind some idiot who doesn't know how to enter a roundabout properly (like literally every Canadian ever.) You're starting to steam and you're contemplating mass-murder and then you see the number 12 on the license plate and immediately you know he's not trying to piss you off intentionally, he's just some moron Aveyron farmer taking his wife for milking or whatever those inbreeders do, so you calm down. A little.

Back to the monochrome couple. Once they were in the car, he didn't start it. Instead she immediately went down on him. I wasn't exactly aghast, but because I was still eating I wasn't exactly impressed either. I was also more than a little jealous. Still, at least I had the class to look away after about 15 seconds when the dude caught me staring. After a really long time, like I mean ... a really, really long time, I guess they finished up because the car wiggled a bit, then there was an interminable pause, then they both got out of the car, walked around it switching seats, and then she drove them away.

Even after 4 years here I wasn't sure what to make of any of that. Maybe a post-burger blowjob was a common thing here in France, but Sophie assured me later on when I told her about it, that this wasn't the case.

That's too bad, because I love burgers.