Not late , not late, for a very important date

Andy and I are always on time, early even. We think being late is disrespectful.  My father was obsessed with being on time and it morphed into my outlook on life.  It is nerve-wracking to be obsessed with anything, but being on time is, to me, major stress.  Andy and I, however, did not realize that being late was accepted and practiced in France.  So when we were invited by one of the Paris antique dealers and her husband for dinner, we pressed the bell on the street and waited to be let into the second door, then pressed that bell and waited yet again.  We were on time and that couple was not ready for on time people.  So they plopped us down with radishes and a drink and proceeded to get ready for dinner. (The meat had yet to be cooked and I am not sure it ever was fully cooked.) So we sat. We noticed the husband carried a plank into the apartment from somewhere.  I don't know where people store planks in Paris, but there it was.  I thought it interesting that it was used with another plank as the dining table. No tablecloth. We watched the construction of our meal from the get-go.  Andy started looking around and then he began rolling his eyes trying to direct me to see something.  I thought at first he was having a stroke. He used his tongue in cheek and eye roll to direct my attention to the glass coffee table on which the radish dish and our drinks sat. Finally, I got the message and looked through the glass top and saw a pile of cat leavings.  If you thought being early was a faux pas then you should have seen us trying to maintain decorum while trying to hold in nervous laughter. We were about to burst when the doorbells started ringing and another couple that we knew arrived. (Maybe a replacement couple for the likes of us ?)  They were French and acceptably late.  We knew them and we were giddy with relief that they were invited.  By that time we had made so many gauche mistakes we thought we might be asked to leave and it would have been a welcome request.  Nevertheless, much later we were called into a closet with the table planks enhanced by actual chairs. I was at one end and the hostess, unfortunately, was at the other end of the board. While chewing our gray meat, I started the conversation with a sentence that caused another uproar about a famous auctioneer breaking my American friend's arm. I said that I was surprised about him doing that...throwing her against a stone wall and breaking her arm because he did not like her questioning his auctioneering moves concerning the American quilts that she had given him to sell. In unison, the couples agreed she deserved it because she was acting big. I plopped my elbows on the table with emphasis to disagree and one end of the plank flew up and food and utensils flew end to end in that tiny room and dinner was done and so were we.  I don't know how we got out of there.  It was surreal. Yet, oddly, this was only one instance of our many kerfuffles in Paris.