There's an épicerie anglo-saxonne in our town. I go there whenever I need some Anglo-Saxon groceries. Which is rather often.
As I walked into the shop this afternoon, the shopkeeper gave me a knowing smile of recognition. The kind of knowing smile I imagine a porn shop employee giving his regulars whenever they pop in for their weekly or perhaps daily set of porn DVDs. The kind of smile in which only one half of the mouth curves upwards. A leery smile that says, "I know exactly what you're after."