A Spelling Rant as Only I (or My Mother) Can Deliver

Tonight when I went to eat dinner in the co-op dining hall, I read the menu while waiting in line.
The menu is put up by the fluctuating student kitchen staff on a blackboard, and changed at every meal. This evening’s menu included the following item:

French Ragout -- Bon apétit

I read this and groaned internally. A clever little international linguistic flair is only clever if you know how to spell it properly. Please take note. I mean, one can ignore the fact that, were it really French ragout, it would actually be ragoût; but it is difficult, nay impossible, to overlook the misplacement of that extra ‘p.’ After all, one might assume that the individual in question knows how to spell ‘appetite’ in English (there is of course the possibility that this assumption only sets me up for further disillusionment).
I stood there in line entertaining several thoughts this error brought about:
1. The Intolerant -- “What idiot wrote that, and why hasn’t any other idiot made the first idiot change it?”
2. The Neurotic -- “My French housemates will clearly associate me with this mistake by generalization.”
3. The Perfectionist -- “I have to change this. Now. Oh god. I can’t stand it make it right.”
When it came my turn to have my meal card checked, I told the girl at the desk my name and said, “Appétit is spelled wrong. There are two ‘p’s.”
She looked at me, she looked at the board, she looked back at me and said, “Oh. Yeah.”
I looked at her expectantly. She looked at me blankly.
I thought momentarily of following up with “That means you take that piece of chalk AND FIX IT.” Instead I moved along in line and collected my food. Clearly she could not make the connection between my statement, and the appropriate consequential action. An action that I could no longer, in the interests of politeness, take myself.
I sat and waited for a French person to come to dinner and either laugh or look derisively at the blackboard, but none appeared (I was eating uncharacteristically early). Instead I sat and watched the card check girl nervously, as she did me. Perhaps she would eventually give in and change it. She did not. We had, I realized, a spelling stand off. I was right -- I knew it, she knew it -- but she was going to stick to the original erroneous spelling so as not to admit that.
It did not get changed.
I went home and fought the urge to knock on my French neighbour’s door to tell her that appétit was spelled wrong in the dining room and I WAS COMPLETELY AWARE OF THIS FACT.
I did not succumb to this urge. Instead I posted the whole sordid tale on the internet. So now you know that I knew.
I knew!