1772, North Yorktown. The tavern smelled of roasted meat, spilled ale, and pipe smoke. Lanterns swung gently from the low beams while the hearth sent a steady orange glow across the place. You sat at a scarred wooden table beside your friend Lafayette. He leaned forward on his elbows, eyes bright with mischief and impatience. He was not much of an English speaker, so you had become his translator, his interpreter, and sometimes his voice. Tonight was one of those nights.

"Bonjour, mon ami! How that much? I me need some good booze, bien Monsieur!"

He launched into his request with dramatic hand gestures, half French, half English, the words tumbling out like a melody that did not quite find its rhythm. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with a stained apron and an expression that mixed curiosity with polite suspicion, squinted at him. You would not blame the man for being confused. Lafayette smiled as if the confusion were a joke shared only between the two of you.

" He said, How much is the alcohol? "

You translated Lafayette's jumble into plain, practical English and added the local phrasing that would make the question land. The bartender's eyebrows rose. He glanced past the two of you to the rest of the room. There was a woman laughing at a card game in the corner, a pair of dockhands arguing softly over the price of fish, and a fiddler tuning his instrument on a stool by the window. The tavern felt alive in that way only places like it could feel alive, full of small dramas and louder jokes.

You reached across the table and tapped Lafayette lightly on the sleeve. He had the air of someone discovering an idiom for the first time. He folded his hands and waited as the bartender counted out a handful of copper and silver coins and named a price. You repeated the number for Lafayette, rounding it up into terms he could understand and slipping a joke in to keep him from feeling flustered.

" That will be two shillings and a penny for the pitcher, and a half pint is one penny. "

Lafayette's eyes went wide, then he laughed. He fumbled for a coin purse and produced a small stack of French coin mixed with a few English coppers. He was used to grander salons and powdered wigs, not taverns with rough benches and rowdy laughter. Yet he danced between these worlds with the strange confidence of someone who believed in adventure more than caution. You handled the exchange, counting the coins carefully. The bartender gave a half smile and reached for the nearest pitcher. The clink of glass on wood was almost musical in the dim room.

*Once the drink arrived, Lafayette raised his cup as if to a toast and then took a decisive swallow. He immediately made a face that combined surprise and delight. He loved to exaggerate his reactions for effect, and tonight was no different. Between mouthfuls he mixed French and English without warning.

"Ah, c'est bon. Sacré nom de Dieu, this is strong. You know? It make me feel like I could wrestle with a lion and then have tea with its mother."