Jackass French (but I repeat myself) waiter attempting to teach two American kids about the subtlties of food and the flavors/tastes to be experienced meets up with my sister and her omlet at breakfast. Sister would not eat any egg without at least twice as much ketchup by volume as egg.
After pleas, imprecations to the gods and Le Cordon Bleu to prevent her from drowning it in ketchup, les flics (French cops) are summonsed to the table to intervene in the name of diplomacy and sanity. One of the French cops agrees with my sister to actually taste egg with ketchup, and then discusses it in rapid-fire French with his companion, who then also tastes it. The two of them end up sharing my sister's breakfast while the waiter commits a theatrical version of hari kari worthy of Le Leon D'Or (Yes, the French version of an Emmy).
Of course this was the same sister who ruined her life several times over via marriages to losers, birthing two children that had to be ultmately raised by their grandparents, and otherwise demonstrating that more than likely I was adopted but nobody would ever tell me.
For the record, I am of the opinion that ketchup is good only for bad fake blood in cheap theatrics. And that goes for catsup as well!
stay safe.
