I don't know what they taught you in France, but rude and interesting are not the same things.

I have a tendency to become minorly obsessed with certain things. Ricky Gervais, A's son Ollie, fart noises, Get Fuzzy. I also can become insanely infatuated with certain culinary niblets such as the Pescado Taco "Nick's Way" from Nick's Crispy Tacos, the chicken soup with small rice noodle and a buttload of hot sauce from King of Thai, and of course, the fruit, yogurt and granola bowl paired with a large nonfat latte from Boulange de Polk. Sometimes I even dream about it, waking up to a ravenous stomach craving my French brekkie, and I've been known to cuss up a storm (internally of course, I have to maintain my "sort of" lady reputation) should something go awry and I am denied my delicious treat (they're out of yogurt, I'm running late, etc.). You're probably wondering, just what makes this item so scrumtrelescent? I'll tell you. Hearty granola piled high with freshly sliced melon, grapes, pineapple, strawberries and blueberries, topped with thick, rich, succulent (and no doubt full-fat) yogurt, finished off with a drizzle of honey that propels it into unbearably sublime territory.

This morning I had the itch, except I took it a step further by going to bed desiring it. Fortunately, I had plenty of time to get to work, it's a Friday and I knew their yogurt delivery was in stock (it comes on Tuesday, and yes, I realize that makes me a little bit sick), and I could sense it was going to be a good day. Oh how wrong I was.

It all started when they forgot to put my order in. My coffee was announced, but somehow my granola bowl slipped through the cracks. Not a problem, they were quite busy and I didn't mind waiting the extra two minutes it took to prepare it. But they were out of the plastic bowls they usually put it in, no worries. They ended up placing it in one of those take-out cardboardish boxes you might slap a brioche or croque-monsieur in, then placing it in a bag and handing it to me. I was a touch apprehensive, but figured they know what they're doing, and I'm too hungry to argue. I put the bag in my purse thinking everything was going to be alright, thinking I was a 15 minute bus ride away from taste bud heaven, thinking God couldn't be that cruel.

The 3rd floor elevator was locked when I arrived, so I pulled the emergency stop to prevent anyone else from calling the lift while I was still in it (it's an old crickety contraption) and plunged my hand into the depths of my purse to retrieve my keys. I was aghast to find the only thing I had a handful of was fruit juice. The brief and relatively easy journey to work proved too much for the delicious dish, which was wounded and bleeding to death in the bottom of my Jimmy Choo knockoff (yet another reason I'm glad I never pay full price).

My fingers frantically swam to find my keys so I could try and save what was left of my injured grub. I rushed to the kitchen and dumped the entire contents of my purse on the counter. Everything was wet, everything was sticky, everything now hated all things Gallic. After giving my possessions a sponge bath, I salvaged what was left of my morning meal and pulled up some real estate at my desk.

And you know what? That pouting French bitch was still delicious.