The Wheat of Virgin Spaces

En route to Pontarlier yesterday, I ordered a beer at the restaurant at Gare de Lyon. This is, without exaggeration, verbatim how the conversation went:

Me: Une bière, svp.
Waiter (in cartoon Inspector Clouseau accent): What kind of beer does Monsieur want?
Me: (looks at menu distractedly) … Je ne suis pas sûr.
Waiter: Would Monsieur like to try a Frrreeench beer?
Me: Oui, bonne idée, j’aimerais essayer une bière française.
Waiter: (triumphantly) You can’t, we only have Heineken.