Beau Scrote

Somewhere in my thirties, I was walking along a street in Strasbourg (I was a delegate at a Council of Europe thing). A man walking towards me did a double-take, and then embraced me passionately. I mean a serious rib-cracking bear hug and kisses on both cheeks. I am not used to this kind of thing, being British.
He then stepped back and said "Légion Étrangère!", pointing at my tie. It seems that a plain green tie is - or was - the mufti of a legionnaire. I really didn't want to disappoint him - apart from anything else, he was HUGE (and I am 1,93m and a bulky fellow myself) - so I smiled and said the only thing that seemed to fit the situation "Zut, alors!" (Remember always to put an almost imperceptible pause between the zut and the alors if you want it to sound authentic).
I politely declined his invitation to "boire un coup" with him, explaining that I had an urgent meeting. Duty - le devoir - you understand. He understood, saluted me and went on his way. Bless him. And thank God.
Hell, it's not every day you get mistaken for a member of the French Foreign Legion.
Just call me Beau Scrote.