Two men walking along Avenue A in New York City observed a dingy saloon, in the window of which was a framed sign, reading:
“Ici on parle français.”
“I don’t believe anybody talks French in that dump,” one of the observers remarked.
To settle the matter, they entered, and ordered ginger ale of a red-headed barkeeper who was unmistakably Irish.
One of the men addressed the barkeeper:
“Fait beau temps, monsieur.”
The barkeeper scowled.
“Come agin!” he demanded.
It was soon demonstrated that French was a language unknown to the establishment.
The visitor then inquired as to the reason for the sign in the window, explaining that it meant, “French is spoken here.”
The Irish barkeeper cursed heartily.
“I bought it off a sheeny,” he explained, “for six bits. He tould me it was Latin for, ‘God Bless Our Home.'”