I’m 8 years old and hungry and scuffing my way across the gravel. It’s a hot summer Friday and I’ve begged my parents to take us out for dinner to my favorite restaurant. Two cocktails into the weekend my parents have already relaxed their vigilance. Le Petit Zoo serves up steak and frites in an informal outdoor setting with green metal tables and chairs. “Sinalco” “Pernod” and “Ricard” are splashed across the canvas parasols planted in concrete holders .
An old parrot is the star of the show at Le Petit Zoo. No health laws need apply—there aren’t any yet, it’s only 1955. The parrot cruises the place, showing off old green feathers and yellow cheeky highlights. He talks French, no Polly wanting crackers. He’s fussed over just for being there, and is totally spoiled. Not like me, I think. How does he do it? Maybe he’s the only parrot in Switzerland…. I want him to be my friend.
There he is: I hurry over disrupting two diners in a tête à tête à tête with him.
“Ça va Coco? he goes.
“Ça va” I answer. “Et toi?”
“Ça va Coco?” he goes again, pointedly not answering my polite return of query.
“Oui, ça va. Et toi, ça va Coco?” I say.
He tilts his cocky head at me with whooo are youuu disdain. Then comes out with some garbled generic bird-speak and resumes.
“Ça va Coco?” he answers, not engaging. Like he really cares.
I’d heard of parrots who spoke five languages and could use an abacus. This guy lives on restaurant food and flaunts it. Why can’t this lightweight come up with some interesting stuff? Why can't he at least pretend to be intelligent?
I wish I could tap him upside the beak to extract a few more interesting phrases. Or punish him just a little bit, I’d figure out how….
“Non, ça ne va pas. Pas du tout.“ I add “petit con!” under my breath knowing it's a word that means something rather bad. I poke my tongue out at him. Idiot bird.
So this is the highlight of my summer week, a dialogue with a bird who’s either stupid, brain damaged or indifferent. I wander off to see if they’ve brought the food.....
and they have. I pluck three French fries from the oval platter before it reaches the table: hot slivers of perfection. I’m in savory heaven. A couple more..... Is the parrot my friend?
Ça va Coco? Mais oui, ça va!
