The Grand Illusion

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It's a fact.

Feldwebel Arthur stuffs himself

with cabbage every day.

Gives him chronic indigestion.

He'd much rather tuck in

to your peas.

Don't kid yourselves.

They wouldn't risk

the parcels stopping.

They're hard put to feed themselves.

Hurry up, our guests will be hungry.

Same old thing! Old boots again!

What are the French eating?

Cabbages, but they've their parcels.

- Russians?

- Cabbage roots, but no parcels.

- The English?

- Plum pudding.

In peace-time I was an actor...

in the Halls.

- Ever see me?

- The theatre's too serious for me.

I prefer cycle racing.

You ever follow it?

You must have heard

of the champions.

Can we buy what we like?

Yes, through the canteen.

Fine, I shall buy an armchair...

playing cards, books,

English cigarettes...

You won't find those!

I'll try and come tomorrow, Sir.

Gentlemen, dinner is served.

What shall we begin with?

Cold chicken, pt de foie...

mackerel in wine?

Quite a menu!

Don't they feed us?

They do in theory,

in fact it's uneatable.

Fortunately there are our parcels,

especially Rosenthal's.

Please...

A drop of cognac as an aperitif?

Why not?

I've never eaten so well in my life!

- Some fish?

- Yes, please.

I'm starting to take

Rosenthal's kindness for granted.

It shows man is a creature of habit.

No need to tell you he's a teacher.

Teach... preach...

Screech... leech...

Bloody hell!

Quite a joker!

Are we supposed to find that witty?

He's particular!

This calls for a drink!

Good cognac.

From Fouquet's,

disguised as a mouthwash.

Fouquet's?

It's a bar on the Champs-Elyses.

In Paris,

I ate at my brother-in-law's.

It's less expensive.

- Been in Paris lately?

- A week ago.

Lucky chap! Many people there?

Maxim's was crowded.

I never go to places like that...

I prefer a quiet spot...

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