A friend of a friend living on the Upper West Side told me a funny little anecdote:
She was at a Friday night dinner being chatted up by a dashing French fellow sitting beside her. All was going swimmingly until he suddenly threw an entirely random, and somewhat inappropriate, request at her. Here’s a rough version of how the conversation proceeded thereafter (bearing in mind the Gallic gentleman’s thick French accent):
-You ‘ave ‘potte’ in yourrr appartement?
-Pot? What kind of pot? (somewhat startled)
-You know, ‘potte’, jwoints, what you can smokk.
-What, pot as in marijuana?!
-Yes, exactlee! You ‘ave eet? We go smokke in yourr appartement?
-Hmmm, um, funnily enough, no, I don’t have any marijuana in my apartment.
-What you mean you don’t even ‘ave an emerrrgencee supply of potte? (sounding aghast)
-Yes, you know, like you ‘ave zat emerrgencee fifty-dollar bill in case of emergencees- zat kind of sing.
-Umm, how can I put this? Look, I don’t even smoke the stuff for one thing, so certainly don’t have an emergency stash of it! And anyway, I keep Shabbat and you’re not allowed to smoke on Shabbat.
-Oh but it would create exactleee ze right ambiance forr Shabbat!
-Well, even if I wanted to, where would I even get hold of weed in Manhattan? I mean, where do you buy your pot here? Do you have a dealer?
– But we arrre in Man’attan – I get it delivered of courrse.
I love that punchline, delivered in that entirely matter-of-fact way.
Only in Manhattan!
PS. I suspect that it was not just a language barrier that prevented the two protagonists from deciding to take their relationship up to the next level.