"The croissant should be torn, not cut," Madame Delacroix explained, demonstrating with the kind of surgical precision usually reserved for open-heart surgery."Small pieces, brought delicately to the mouth.We do not bite directly from the whole pastry like some kind of wild animal."
"What if I'm a hungry wild animal?"I muttered under my breath.
"What was that, Your Highness?"
"Nothing.Just admiring the pastry."
I tore off a piece the size of my thumbnail and raised it to my lips with exaggerated delicacy.Madame Delacroix nodded approvingly, missing my sarcasm entirely.
"Now, the coffee.We lift the cup with the right hand, supporting the saucer with the left if standing.The pinkie does not extend.That is a common misconception perpetuated by American cinema."
"God forbid American cinema influence my pinkie position."
"Sarcasm is not becoming in a princess, Your Highness."
"Neither is starving to death because I can only eat one atom of croissant at a time, but here we are."
Madame Delacroix's expression suggested I was testing the limits of her professional patience."Perhaps we should move on to the proper way to acknowledge servants."
"Acknowledge servants?What does that mean?"
"When staff enter to serve or clear dishes, there is a correct way to indicate you've noticed their presence without actually engaging in conversation."
"Why wouldn't I engage in conversation?They're people, not furniture."
"They are staff, Your Highness.It would be inappropriate to distract them from their duties with personal conversation during formal meals."
"But I could say thank you, right?When they bring me something?"
Madame Delacroix looked at me like I'd suggested we eat with our hands."A slight nod is sufficient.Verbal thanks during formal dining is...unusual."
"Unusual, or American?"
"Often the same thing."
The lesson continued for another excruciating hour, during which I learned the proper way to butter bread (one piece at a time, butter applied to each bite, never the whole slice), the correct angle for holding a fork (European style, tines down, apparently Americans did this wrong too), and the appropriate facial expression for receiving courses I didn't like (gracious acceptance, as if the chef had done me a personal favor by presenting me with food I found repulsive).
By the time Madame Delacroix released me, I was starving, exhausted, and more convinced than ever that royal life had been designed by people who actively hated joy.
I escaped to the kitchen, where Chef Auguste took one look at my face and started assembling a plate without being asked.
"Croissant torture?"he guessed.
"Croissant torture," I confirmed, slumping onto my usual stool."Did you know there's a wrong way to eat bread?I've been doing it wrong my entire life."
"There is no wrong way to eat bread.There is only bread, and eating.Everything else is pretension."
"I'm going to have that embroidered on a pillow."
He set down a plate containing a perfectly normal sandwich: thick slices of bread, cheese, ham, mustard.No tiny pieces.No surgical precision required.Just food, meant to be eaten by a human being with normal-sized bites.
"You are a saint," I said, picking it up with my hands like the American barbarian I was.
"I am a chef who believes food should be enjoyed, not performed."He watched me eat with obvious satisfaction."How are the other lessons going?"
"Terribly.I've been informed that I walk wrong, sit wrong, stand wrong, and acknowledge servants wrong.The only thing I do correctly is breathe, and I'm sure Madame Delacroix will find a problem with that too if she tries hard enough."
"And the riding lessons?"
