That story happened in France, at the beginning of the 1600's...
Its Sunday, and a man in Paris come home from the Holy Mass at Notre Dame de Paris.
To his delight, he finds his wife has cooked a "chicken in a pot".
(this french dish, in case you wonder)
Learn the recipe for the most traditional French chicken dish: "la poule au pot" and practice your French with this bilingual "recette"
www.frenchtoday.com
"Nice, you know how much I love that dish, darling." He says his wife. And together they take great pleasure eating it.
Then at the end of a perfect meal, his wife looks at him and says:
"I'm glad you enjoyed it so much.
"My pleasure. You are a damn fine cook, darling.
"Good. You know, our beloved King Henri IV has said recently "we should eat meat once a week to get stronger, with better health"; and since most meat is very unaffordable, he has advised to focuse on "Chicken in pot".
He is pretty smart: he knows that most of us poor peasants only have hens and roosters and chickens as meat. No other option."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_IV_of_France
The guy is worried, then baffled.
"Wait a minute. I know you... and I can see where this is going. Does this mean you gonna cook chicken-in-a-pot every single damn Sunday in the future ?"
"Well
surely I will, since our beloved king said so. If he said to do that, it must be a good thing to do: he is a good King, I admire him, and so I will do exactly as he said."
"Oh gosh... well we shall see." he says his wife defiantly and angrily. He already knows she won't budge, but there is always way to negociate.
No ?
No. And thus every single damn Sunday over the next decades, he came home every Sunday and every Sunday was goddam Chicken-in-a-pot on the table.
Needless to say, he ended truly
hating the damn thing. He just couldn't stand it anymore. Only the thought, only the sight, angered him greatly.
But go tell the wife ! He fought bitterly, and lost every time. She wouldn't change the meal, ever, because she truly admired freakkin' King Henri IV.
And on and on it went. Until that fateful other Sunday, in the glory month of May. It was sunny and warm, a wonderful day, and the man felt more optimistic than ever about the future.
And he dared to think "Maybe... maybe the wife got it at least. And cooked something else. Who knows ?"
And thus he came back home, from holy mass at Notre Dame de Paris.
Only to find "Chicken in a pot" on his table.
All of sudden, it was too much. He felt anger explode inside him. His eye started twitchin uncontrollably.
And he blew a fuse, started screaming, wrecked the table, and angrily threw the fucking dish by the window.
...but it wasn't enough: he was well beyond the breaking point.
Something else had to be done.
Something had to give. To pay, for all those years of FUCKING CHICKEN-IN-A-POT.
And then it dawned on him, like an evidence.
Eureka !
He brutally pushed aside his baffled and very angried wife. Ran to the kitchen, and took a huge knife.
Before she could say a word he was gone, furiously running away via the back door: into the streets of Paris, with his huge knife on hand, menacing, screaming, running like crazy.
His wife was evidently furious. She ran after him, but he was already gone.
So she stood on her door treshold and angrily shouted from the top of her lungs:
"FRANCOIS
RAVAILLAC ! COME BACK HOME YOU UGLY BASTARD - WE HAVE TO TALK !!"
en.wikipedia.org