“Frère, look, I don’t see what the problem is.”
          “I told you, the stupid thing doesn’t work!”
          “What is so hard about toasting bread!”
          Blaise threw up his hands in a sign of surrender. “This is sans espoir!” he said, pacing circles in the restaurant kitchen.
          “What is hopeless, is you, Frère,” Corrected his sister, Renée."You're not even supposed to be in here, Frère," she sighed.“
          "What did you do anyway?” she asked, dodging a lash of his dark, red ponytail.
          Blaise stopped his pacing, “First, I put the toast in the toaster.”
          “You mean bread?”
          “Whatever, Renée. Then I pushed the wobbly thing down.”
          “The lever isn’t supposed to—“ began his sister.
          “Well, it does!” he said, losing his temper.
          “It's just toast.”
          “Then I turned around and accidentally knocked the toaster off the counter,(As he said this, he knocked the toaster on its side) and the bread fell out," he said as he righted the toaster.
  “Then I put in new bread and now, here we are.”
          Renée took this order of events in for a minute. Blaise impatiently tapped the “broken” toaster.
          “You know what, Frère? People actually miss me when I'm not doing my job. So I’ll go and get Jacques for you,” She finally said, heading for the door.
          “Non! Renée! Don’t get—“
          She never heard the end of the sentence, as Blaise was interrupted by a great yank on his hair.
          “Fool, I’m already here,” Announced Jacques, releasing the ponytail.
          “Don’t do that!” Blaise whined.
          The headwaiter just ignored him, “You’re a waiter, Blaise. What are you doing making toast?”
         The redhead rested an elbow on the counter. “Your father thought I made such a lousy waiter, that he put me in here thinking I’d do better,”
          “That was wishful thinking,” Jacques sighed. “So what’s the problem today?”
          “Toaster won’t work.”
          “That’s a new toaster!” Jacques yelled in fury. “What did you do?”
          Blaise repeated what he had told his sister.
          “Then I knocked the toaster off the counter,” for the third time, the toaster fell over. “The bread fell out—“
          “The bread fell out!” Jacques' voice was surely cracking by now, with all the yelling he did.
          “Jacques, calm down, se calmer, it’s not even 8:30, and you’re losing your voice,”
          His friend just glared at him.
          “As I was saying,” the waiter continued, “I put in new bread, and told Renée what I told you.”
          Jacques gave Blaise a disapproving glare before directing his gaze toward the toaster.
          After a minute of examination, and fifty-five seconds of Blaise’s impatient tapping, Jacques found the problem.
          “It’s unplugged,” He declared, holding up the plug.
          “You knocked it over so many times, it came out of the socket,” The headwaiter tossed the wire to Blaise, who plugged it in.
          And out of the toaster came the bread, burned beyond all recognition.
          “The toaster wasn’t working and Blaise still burns the bread,” Jacques said to himself. “How do we stay in business?”
           He sighed as his friend threw the bread into the garbage, “ I will never understand you mon ami. Now go wait on table five, and please be nice to them.”