If your only problem is a French accent, then I envy you mate. At least your server understood your order.

I usually get some spotty Hispanic youth serving me in Pret, who's obviously been skiving the English language course that he's been subsidised by the rest of the EU to enrol in.

"A sesame seed pretzel, please."

"Errrr, Whaaa?!"

"A se-sa-me seed pret-zel."

"Prezzhil? Err..."

[I point Cristiano to the pretzels]

"Ahhhh, prezzhil!"

"Yes, sesame seed please"

[Get to work, and open bag to find a pretzel covered in mixed herbs.]

[Outstretch arms in Platoon/Shawshank-esque pose, look to the ceiling, close eyes and scream]

"All I frikkin want is a FRIKKIN PRETZEL WITH SESAME SEEDS. THROW ME A FRIKKIN BONE"

[Newly qualified roommate shifts nervously in seat]
 

I feel your pain.

I was talking about a customer tho'. "Yah, I'll have an white Americano and a [assumes OTT French accent] Kwahson, please".

Also, who eats pretzels? Are you some sort of seppo or summat? That pretzel was probably there for days, man - I always assumed those things were just part of a display...
 

You love that skinny posh bord, you do.

You skulk outside Starbucks until she arrives and follow her in.

You pay close attention to her order, pronunciation and Holmes Place-honed butt, don't you.

You love her.
 

Dude, I do not love that bird either. Couldn't care less about her. In fact, YOU love her. Chrisola and a posh bird, sitting in a tree...