Argy-bargycue

‘That’s the ticket!’ he garbled through his mouthful of burger and spittle. ‘Nice and simple.’
He looked pointedly at her over the top of his shades and wiped his greasy fingers on his greasier apron. Of course, it was one of those specimens depicting the outline of a basque-clad woman – he thought it hilarious.
She stretched her mouth into a submissive smile as she pushed a morsel of burger around her plate with her fork, silently drooling for the aromatic pinkness of rainbow trout or a nicely-seared king prawn, perhaps with just a touch of sweet chilli dipping sauce. But no, it was her birthday and he had insisted on treating her to his speciality – the traditional British barbecue. Her burger fragment beached itself on a slope of thickening grease, and she suppressed a gag.
‘Filling, innit?’ He smirked approvingly, taking her disgust as a sign of satiety. ‘Not like your arty farty nouvelle quizzy stuff. Much nicer than them burgers you made, ain’t they?’
She recalled her steak tartare haché and his pained and prolonged retching as he took his first mouthful, and memories of her other attempts to interest him in real food stung to the surface. The hours she spent making that cassoulet, and the seconds it had taken him to fork it into the bin and then microwave a plateful of Heinz beans. She swallowed.
‘You’re quite right. This is delicious. Do let me get you some more ketchup.’
‘Attagirl!’ he crowed from behind his barbecue as he flipped his third burger.
She padded inside, and extracted the red bottle from the cupboard. She glanced furtively towards the window, and then took a second bottle, decanting most of its contents into the ketchup. He may not care for her French food, but perhaps he might get a kick from her imported Wasabi sauce.