You can tell it’s almost Spring: The weather’s getting warmer (not, in and of itself, a reliable indicator in these post global-warming days); I have trouble finding a space in my apartment’s car park; and the waiters are being rude again.

It’s a truism that most restaurants in tourist destinations simply don’t care whether or not you like the service because they’re not relying on you coming back ever again. You’re here for the day, you’ll only ever eat there once, so eat up, pay up and then get lost so they can turn the table and rip off the next customer.

So yesterday we ate, or rather tried to eat, at Trulli in Aigues Mortes, down towards the Camargue. We arrived at a quarter to one, not too late one would think, but there were only a couple of tables left among the 50 or so already occupied in the town’s central square.

We were seated, given menus and, within a quarter of an hour, had our drinks order delivered. Expensive drinks, mind you, but we’re on holiday, it’s sunny and it’s a pleasant spot. “J’arrive”, the waitress said, explaining in that illogical French way that she’ll be over some time soon to take our food order. It doesn’t mean “I’m coming right now” but “I’m thinking of setting off some time soon. Fairly soon anyway.”

So we waited. And waited. And drank our drinks. And finished our drinks. And re-read the menu. Then the waitress arrived, notepad in hand – and took the order of the table next door which had been seated a quarter of an hour after us. Then she ran, literally ran away inside the restaurant.

We waited. By now we were really hungry, so we decided just to pay for our drinks and go and get a sandwich; clearly our waitress had forgotten us and, even if she took our order now at 1340, we weren’t going to be eating anywhere near this side of 2 o’clock.

So, an hour after we sat down, she arrived. “Just the bill for our drinks please,” I said. “We’ve been waiting too long, we’re hungry and I’m annoyed that you took the order of the table next to us who were seated 15 minutes after us.”

“Ah don’t worry about that,” she said, flourishing her note pad on which sat, unmoved, the order for next door which she’d taken nearly 15 minutes earlier. “I haven’t put their order into the kitchen yet – I’ll put your order in first so you get your food before them.”

What, as the young people say these days, the actual fuck? You took their order a quarter of an hour ago, giving them hope that they’ll be eating any time soon, and the kitchen is still ignorant of their existence? N’importe quoi, as they say in French.

“Just our drink bill then,” I said, and she repeated those immortal lines “J’arrive”.

Dear Reader, she did not arrive. Not any time soon. We’d been waiting over an hour; I’d had the time to send Scarlett off to the Postcard shop to buy a postcard so I’d have the exact change for our order before, casually passing our table, our waitress said, “You have to pay inside.”

“Well it would have been useful to know that,” I said. And now she became angry and shouted. “I told you! I told you that you had to go inside.”

And I too got angry. “No you absolutely, definitely did not. You did NOT tell us to go inside.” Scarlett and Roxanne confirmed this, but she insisted, shouting loudly now. So we stood up and started moving inside to pay. I turned to our still hopeful neighbors. “You may like to know that even though she took your order 20 minutes ago she still hasn’t passed it on to the kitchen,” I told them. And she got even angrier. “That’s not true!” I’m taking it now!”

Well, both things can’t be true. The neighbors decided that a sandwich was a good idea too, and stood up to leave. I went inside to pay where the owner took my cash – the exact amount, €25.50 for three alcohol-free cocktails which were quite good – and laughed. “No tip?”

“Sure,” I said. “Don’t lie to and shout at your customers. Have a great season.”

We left, got a very nice sandwich on the way out – freshly made, lots of salad – and then went for an ice cream.

There are two ice cream parlors at the entrance to Aigues Mortes directly opposite each other. We went to the one on the left as there was no queue. Roxanne and I got our ice creams and Scarlett got a Glace Italienne, a Mr Whippy in fake strawberry flavor. Which tasted disgusting. “Taste this,” she invited me. It tasted of milk gone off.

I passed it over the counter to the server, saying, “This tastes funny. It’s gone off.” He looked at me as if I’d just passed him a turd. “No it hasn’t.” He didn’t bother tasting or smelling it.

“Smell it.”

He sniffed. “It smells of strawberry.”

“Yes. Strawberry and rotten milk,” I replied. He went to see his boss at the back of the store who sniffed it, said, “There’s nothing wrong with it,” and then threw it in the bin.

Scarlett took a regular ice cream and we left without any comment or apology.

Next time, we’ll try the ice cream parlor on the right. But it’ll be a long time before we go back to Aigues Mortes, I have to say.