How to Be Parisian: Grumpy Efficiency

Stephen found Paris’ waiters to be at the pinnacle of grumpy efficiency ahead of the 2024 Oylmpic Games.

Here in Paris, things are hotting up. The sun is making regular guest appearances and preparations for the Olympics are getting really serious. The other day I had a business meeting at 11.30am in one of the southern outlands of Paris. Getting there on time from my home in the north meant leaving ridiculously early in case a Metro line let me down en route.

As tourist season kicks in, there are frequent cases of bagages abandonnés – luggage forgotten on trains or platforms. A wheelie bag next to a bench can stop the Metro wheels rolling for an hour, as police are called and the suitcase is subjected to a controlled explosion, shredding some absent-minded visitor’s underwear into a million charred nylon tatters.

Café society

I set off a full 90 minutes before my meeting, but as it turned out, my Metro journey went smoothly, so I got to my destination in less than an hour. There was, of course, no way I was going to call and ask for an early start. In Paris, requesting to begin a meeting 30 minutes early is tantamount to admitting you’re unemployed. Even arriving exactly on time is sometimes taken to mean that you have nothing better to do.

So I decided to have a coffee at the brasserie on the corner. The terrace was large, covering a whole peninsular of pavement. There were about 20 typically Parisian café tables, all round and topped with fake marble. Most of them had already been laid for lunch, with knives, forks and napkins set out in anticipation of the midday rush. I sat at one of the unlaid tables just as a pair of workmen arrived – muscles, cigarettes, dirty T-shirts and denims. A waiter in a long apron came out and greeted them as old friends, shaking hands and calling them the familiar “tu”. He then turned to me and raised an eyebrow: “Monsieur?” “Bonjour,” I replied, “un crème et un verre d’eau, s’il vous plaît,” meaning that I wanted a cup of coffee with milk (Parisian waiters don’t call this a café au lait) and a glass of water.

He nodded, and exchanged some more repartee with the workmen before disappearing back into the café. A few minutes later he re-emerged with a tray and served his friends two espressos and two glasses of water. He then deposited a crème on my table. I reminded him politely: “J’aimerais bien un verre d’eau aussi, s’il vous plaît,” to which he moaned, “Je dois faire tous ces aller-et-retours!” (I have to keep coming and going.)

As he marched away, I decided not to retort that I’d asked for water in the first place. There was no point: better to receive a glass of water than be right and remain thirsty. He brought my water – a Parisian waiter can be rude and efficient at the same time and turned his attention to a woman who had just sat down at one of the tables set for lunch. “C’est pour déjeuner?” he asked. Was she lunching? She confessed she only wanted a coffee. Hadn’t she noticed the table was laid for lunch? No, she said, but could she have an espresso?

Turning the tables

He stared down at her for a full five seconds before informing her that if she wasn’t lunching, she had to go and sit at one of the tables that wasn’t laid for lunch. Only when she had obeyed did he ask, “Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?” (What can I get you?), as if he hadn’t even heard what she’d said while she was at the wrong table.

I had to laugh. I hadn’t encountered a waiter with this talent for public rudeness for years. It was like hearing an old hit record that used to annoy me on the radio. To me the conclusion was obvious: the waiters have started training for the Olympics. Beware all ye who plan to head to Paris this summer. But be reassured, too: the grumpiest Parisian waiter will enjoy his bout of rudeness so much that he’ll serve you exactly what you ask for.

Stephen Clarke’s latest Paul West novel, Merde at the Paris Olympics, is out now.

From France Today Magazine