[French things being in sure is... a unique trend. Playing the snake oil salesman isn't new to Hazel, as such, although usually it's on his own terms and very much not about peddling wares, as it were. This time, someone's handed him a half sheet of paper with a short script on it and told him to improvise.

So while he's reading that, mostly to himself...] Bonjour, y'all... I do declare, this lil sham ain't likely to see much success.

[Just before he loses this wannabe French-products-peddler's attention, though, he gets a pat on the shoulder and an instruction to tell the people about that lovely French hat he's wearing. The literal cowboy hat. It might as well have DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS written across its front, for how much it's obviously a cowboy hat—

And Hazel can't believe what he's hearing.]

Ya can't pick the least French thing about me and have me passin' it off as the genuine article— Are ya listenin' still, sir? No?

[No. The answer is no. ...After a minute, holding up the little script he was given to work off of,] I'm sellin' these fine French advertisin' guides, if y'all are interested...

[He's been going down the same street for ten minutes now. Or rather, he's gone down the same street maybe four times - first a coincidence, second suspicious, third to be sure and fourth... a mistake.

He's had better ideas. That didn't take ten minutes, but he's been here for the rest of that time just leaning against the side of a building on this mysterious street, arms folded, unimpressed. So maybe he can't figure out how to leave, whatever, he's not going to come out and admit that—!]

Afternoon, [he'll say, to any other fool who's stuck in this crappy street.] You come down here huntin' for mysteries? Bit anticlimactic, ain't it?