There are certain things nobody tells you before you open a restaurant.

They tell you about food costs.

They tell you about payroll.

They tell you that employees will call out at the worst possible time, equipment will break five minutes before the dinner rush, customers will occasionally complain about things you cannot control, and the air conditioner will always seem to know exactly when you have no money available for repairs.

They do not tell you that one day you may find yourself standing behind the restaurant trying to negotiate a peaceful relocation agreement with a group of bees.

That part apparently comes later.

I have said many sentences during the years I have owned businesses that I never expected to say.

“Why is root beer dripping out of the ceiling?” was one of them.

“Who left the ceiling tile out under the air-conditioning return?” was another.

“Please close the kitchen door because we are not trying to air-condition the entire state of Georgia” is one I have said so many times that it no longer sounds unusual.

Recently, I added another sentence to the list.

“I am going outside to talk to the French bees.”

I said it seriously.

Everyone else looked at me as if the restaurant had finally caused whatever small amount of sanity I had left to disappear.

That may still be true, but talking to the bees seemed much more reasonable than killing them.

The bees began appearing behind the restaurant.

At first there were only a few of them. Nobody paid much attention. There are always insects outside a restaurant. There are flies, mosquitoes, moths, wasps, spiders, ants, and every other creature in Georgia that has decided restaurants are built primarily for their convenience.

Then more bees appeared.

They were small and surprisingly calm. They flew around near the back of the building, landed on different surfaces, and seemed interested in whatever was back there.

My wife told me they were French bees.

I had never heard of French bees before.