We recently returned from a family trip to Paris. It is quite a place. The third most visited city in the world and, geographically speaking, fairly small. Only 40 or so square miles which makes it about one third the size of my hometown - Scottsdale, Arizona. With over 2.2 million residents plus another half a million or so visitors at any given time, a tourist had better be ready for one thing: crowds. Along with cathedrals, art, culture, palaces, gardens, jazz, and wine, there are masses of people everywhere in The City of Light.
Unless you go at the very low season (and I'm not sure there is one), be ready for the lines, the sharp elbows, and that person behind you who is sure you are not moving fast enough. It really isn't quite rudeness. I describe it as more of a hyper competitive crowd with money to spend and not much time to spend it.
I've been to this bustling, very unique city three times now, and have pretty much decided that if you get here enough, you will eventually have some sort of story involving a french waiter. It is inevitable. This is mine:
Eating places are everywhere in Paris. I mean everywhere. They are friendly and casual for the most part. The menus read in French and English. The wait staff are nearly all multi-lingual and ordering is not too difficult.
Our waiter on one particular night seemed just a little more stiff than normal. I would have liked to see him smiling at our party of eight (two families) as we sat down in a local bistro in Montparnesse . But he was not.
My inclination as a foreigner is first to suspect that we have done something wrong. Believe me, you think this all the time as an average American tourist in Europe. There is a large uncomfortable zone as a traveler, and you will be constantly asking yourself, from finding the right line to stand in - to how to flush a toilet, OK what am I screwing up now?
The waiter looked grim and leaned toward my left shoulder to speak discretely. He made a polite and subtle gesture at my 16 year old daughter to the right across the table. She was on her iPhone.
"Monsieur, zee Mademoiselle with zee mobile phone. Es...NON" That last word was spoken with the crisp impact of a guillotine's drop.
She was busy uploading pictures and oblivious to our conversation. I got what he meant - right away.
"Taryn, honey. You have to put the phone away now for the meal."
"Why?" (two syllable pronunciation)
My friend Steve looked over at me and began smiling. Because he also has two young adults and has seen this many times: the teenage version of Ebola - where backtalk comes out of every orifice.
"Why? Because, honey, sweetheart, I am the boss of you. And do you see that man over there?"
I pointed to our waiter (who looked even stiffer than before): "He is the boss of me."
Steve chuckled and glanced at his own daughter. The message and the law north of the Seine was loud and clear.
We all enjoyed a fine French dining experience. It could have been my imagination but the service was pretty fast. At least compared to my last visit to the city 15 years ago. But we had time for very nice conversation and. The teenagers were engaged with us - and I was glad that our waiter enforced a rule that I've tried to establish at family meals, but admittedly grow tired of hounding the kids about.
After the desserts were finished, and the check hit the table I noticed the waiter speak discretely to my daughter in the same way he had approached me earlier.
"Mademoiselle..." He finally broke a smile. "Zee mobile phone? I was only joking."
Now you can picture a tall, stiff French waiter grinning ear to ear.
It took a couple of seconds, but I suddenly got it and my friend Steve did too. We finished the meal with the absolute best laugh of the night.
The last toast and a pretty good tip went to our waiter as my daughter turned her phone back on.
"Bien joué, garçon. Bien joué Monsieur."
