Everything is Just a Little Fancier When You Say it in French

Where Fleur writes a silly story based on a fun prompt

Mar 03, 2025

I was asked to share the (silly) story I wrote based on the writing prompt (on Jennifer Chambliss Bertman’s Substack), so here it is below. Enjoy!

Everything is Just a Little Fancier When You Say it in French

by Fleur Bradley Visscher

The elevator doors opened, and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

The woman was unusual enough. She was very tall and slender, her light brown skin freckled in a way that made me think she spent a lot of time outside. She wore a pink coat with a white fluffy collar, with cargo pants and brown boots that were caked in mud. Her hair was spirally and bright white with pink ends.

But it wasn’t the woman that made me raise my eyebrows. (I have distinct eyebrows. People often comment that they look like two caterpillars trying to fist-bump across my forehead.) No, it was her company that almost made my jaw drop as I extended my arm to keep the elevator doors from closing.

There were one, two, three—oh, I stopped counting there were so many—flamingos. This woman was guiding a whole flock of flamingos onto the elevator. Like it was just the most normal thing, on this very average Wednesday.

“Eighth floor please,” she said—or chirped was more like it.

I still had my arm across the elevator opening. I was the elevator man after all—or Concierge, as I preferred to be called. Everything is just a little fancier when you say it in French. I moved my arm and pressed the number eight button, once. Some people mistakenly press an elevator button again (and again, and sometimes again) once it is already illuminated. This was why I was there: to make the elevator experience an organized one.

Now, some said having a concierge in the elevator was an extravagance. Every year in the hotel building’s board meetings, my paycheck was scrutinized. Yet, there is something about having a concierge (especially one with formidable eyebrows) push the elevator button for you. It feels fancy.

Like the title, Concierge.

I saw it as my duty that all the guests at our hotel arrive at the correct floor. Imagine if you got off on the wrong level, with your flock of flamingos! They might just fly away… (Can flamingos fly? I wanted to ask my elevator passenger, but she did not seem approachable.)

The flamingos were agitated. One was flapping its wings, and one let out an aggravated caw as the elevator doors slid closed. Their talons scratched the elevator floor.

Yet I did not argue or ask the woman what she was doing with her flock of flamingos on my elevator. She looked too determined, and perhaps, ready to fight me if I told her she couldn’t bring her birds onto the elevator. I am not a fighter, despite what my eyebrows might convey. The flamingos were welcome on my elevator.

Besides, as a concierge, I had seen it all. The floors had been scratched by anything from high heels to stroller wheels, to… Well, flamingo talons.

The woman snapped both her fingers, twice.

The birds settled, clearly following this woman’s lead. She reminded me of one of those teachers who really have their class organized. Maybe she was a flamingo teacher. Or a zookeeper.

The elevator slowly rose. Mine was an old one—antique, one might even say. I took great pride in it. I really hoped none of the flamingo pooped.

I said, by way of a compliment, “Nice flock, Miss.”

She looked at me and gave me a sideways smile. “Why, thank you. I’m taking them to the honeymoon suite, to ride out the upcoming hurricane. It has a jacuzzi tub.”

Of course, for her birds. Those were some lucky flamingos.

The elevator dinged before I could reply. The doors opened. We were on the eighth floor.

I extended my arm to hold the elevator door and watch the woman lead her flamingos off. I was relieved to see that the damage was minimal. A pink feather fluttered onto the floor, like a present.

Before she walked down the hall, the lady turned to me and said, “It’s not a flock, sir. A group of flamingos is called a flamboyance. From the French word flamboyant.” Her pronunciation was excellent.

I did not know this fact about the flamingo flamboyance, so I raised my eyebrows. As a concierge, I considered myself a collector of facts and information—a connoisseur, if you will. You learn a lot, greeting people in a hotel elevator all day. “Well, I’ll be.”

She smiled in a conspiratorial way. “Everything is just a little fancier when you say it in French, don’t you agree?”

I did, so I nodded.

She turned and snapped her fingers again, and there was a flutter of pink wings and feathers as the flamboyance disappeared down the hall.

I moved my arm, but before the elevator doors closed, I heard her call over her shoulder, “Those are very formidable eyebrows, Monsieur Concierge.”