The Usual Precautions II – Le Zombie Apocalypse Francaise

I guest-blogged for Nike Sulway at Perilous Adventures  and you can read “The Usual Precautions” there. Since many  of you liked that story about the Australian Zombie Apocalypse, here is the French one:  A table!









The Usual Precautions II – Le Zombie Apocalypse Francaise

The French Interior Minister visits the English Ambassador in Paris.

“It would appear, M’sieur l’Ambassadeur, that we have a zombie Apocalypse.”

“Oh my dear chap! I’m so sorry!” The Ambassador takes off his glasses. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

They sip tea. Lemon not milk. Sugared and not stirred.

“What will you do?”


“About the zombies.”

“Oh, c’est normale.”

“My dear chap, it’s hardly usual. No-one else is having a Zombie Apocalypse.”

Trust the French, thinks the Ambassador, always have to be special.

The Interior Minister claps his hands. Two haughty functionaries enter, one pushing a trolley, the other opening and closing the door. They both wear black leather gloves. On the trolley is a metal container approximately the size of a pizza box (family size) but a little deeper.

“Un cadeau. A gift.”

The Ambassador sighs. Partly because the Parisians always translate for him, refusing to recognize that being bilingual is part of his job description, and partly because the accepting of gifts generates ridiculous amounts of paperwork.

“Thank you, that’s most kind of- what is that smell?”

“It is the cheese. It is from Munster. Not a cheese to be taken lightly.”

Not a cheese to be taken at all, if I have any say in the matter, thinks the Ambassador.

“Well, M’sieur, that is most kind of you.  My wife loves cheese, she was only saying the other day-”

“Ah, ah!” A finger is wagged. “This is not a cheese for eating. It is un Fromage Défensive, a Defensive Cheese.”

The two slim young men undo latches around the metal box and lift the lid.

The Frenchmen take deep appreciative breaths.

“Ah, l’arôme!”

“Dear God!” croaks the Ambassador.

“It is to be placed in the foyer of the Embassy. No zombie will approach. Just one of our usual precautions.”


And meanwhile, somewhere on the Rive Gauche, in a small, dimly-lit restaurant, Alphonse stands poised with pen and paper.

“What does m’sieur desire for lunch?”

The customer regards the menu thoughtfully,

“Les cervaaaauuuux!”

“But of course! Excellent choice, m’sieur! Our chef prepares them Brains Meuniere sautéd in a little butter and lemon with the herb of your choice. He recommends parsley, but the oregano or even the rustic – a mix of thyme and marjoram..? The parsley? Very well, m’sieur. And to drink, perhaps the Macon Villages?”

They pore over the wine list, following the pointing finger as it leaves smudges behind it.

“The Sauterne? Interesting choice.”

The customer sniffs.

“And after? Un peu d’fromage?”

The zombie’s face twists,


“Alors, just a cognac?”

The zombie smiles its broken smile.

“Excellent!” Alphonse sweeps up the menu and extraneous cutlery. Languidly, the zombie flicks a piece of fingernail to the floor,

“Les cervaaauuux!”

“A l’instant, m’sieur!”


Stereotypes? What stereotypes? This one is for the French rellies and in memory of that time, many years ago, when we bought a cheese in Munster and put it in the boot of the car for the long drive back to the coast. It was only about 50 km down the road when someone said,

“What is that smell?”