Tomorrow night, Sid, the landlord of our favourite pub, is having another one of his international buffet nights, to show the rest of the world that here in south-east London we know a thing about fine food.
He's also hoping that he attracts a few more foreign customers to the pub, because he reckons that tourists are usually cash-rich, and he would like to see some of that cash passing over the bar, in his direction.
Tony and me have already had the "pleasure" to take part in one of Sid's - as he calls them - Festivals Of Fine Foods - and to be quite honest, the French may love such stuff, but people like Tony and me think that there's nothing better than cheeseburgers and frozen pizza.
Of course, our taste in food is guided by our financial circumstances, because being unemployed, there's no way the boy and me would be able to afford a plate of deep-fried snails, followed by garnished frogs legs, and accompanied by a fine bottle of 1968 Bordeaux.
Still, I'm not complaining, and as Tony rightly says, even if we did have the money, given the choice between snails or hot dogs, he thinks that snails should be left as mother nature intended them to be - and that's sliding along in a garden, and not providing lunch for the French!