A Tale of Two French Waiters
There are a lot of stereotypes about foreign lands and people. One of them that many of you may have heard is that French waiters are rude. Our trip to
Paris and the Loire Valley gave my husband Rob and me a chance to bust
that myth.
Waiter
#1 – Paris
“Happy
Birthday!” The young waiter greeted us enthusiastically and
escorted us to our table.
I
grinned at Rob. It was our second night in Paris – and neither of us was
having a birthday. I had searched the internet for an authentic Parisian
bistro, someplace frequented by the locals in the Marais District of Paris, and
had settled on Le Bistrot des Comperes, just a short walk from our
hotel. We had asked our concierge to make the reservations and to tell
the restaurant that it was our tenth anniversary, but I had forgotten that
“happy birthday” in French is bon anniversaire.
I explained to the young man in my very limited French that tonight was “l’anniversaire de notre marriage.” He apologized and we all laughed. Somehow that laughter dissolved the formal barrier between our waiter and ourselves and after guiding us through the unfamiliar French menu and turning in our orders, he returned to the table to visit with us. It helped that we had arrived at the unfashionably early hour of 6:30 p.m., at least an hour before the French dinner crowd, so there were not yet any other customers in the restaurant needing his attention.
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| A restaurant in Paris is likely to be empty at 6:30 in the evening. |
Our waiter
introduced himself as Kevin. “Kevin?” I asked. “I didn’t know Kevin
was a French name.”
“Mais oui! It is one of the hundred most popular names in France!”
Not only was his name unexpected, but Kevin had the face of an American college kid, with curly auburn hair, a big smile, and an open manner. His clothing, however, was definitely continental…skinny blue jeans with a wide red belt, a tight red t-shirt, a gold chain around his neck.
 |
| Kevin on the right with his Bristro des Comperes co-workers |
We
spent the entire evening chatting like old friends. Kevin was amazed by
our stories of Lily, our talkative parrot, so naturally we pulled out our tablet to show him photos. He answered our many questions about getting around
in Paris. Finally, he had to turn his attention to arriving customers,
but made a point of coming over to say good-bye when it was time for us to
leave.
The
next afternoon, Rob and I joined our Rick Steves Tours group and Rolinka, our tour guide,
led us through the Marais streets to our first group dinner. What a great
surprise to find that we were headed to the very same little bistro!
Kevin greeted our group, then he spotted Rob and me in the crowd. His
face lit up and he greeted me with a hug and a kiss on each cheek while the
other members of our tour group looked on in wonder. How lovely to feel
like a local Parisian!
Waiter #2 – Azay-le-Rideau
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| One of my favorite chateaux of the Loire Valley - Chateau Azay-le-Rideau |
 |
| Balzac Street |
Our
tall, reserved, silver-haired waiter at a little café at the end Balzac Street stood
patiently looking down at me as I tried to explain the modifications that Rob
wanted made to his lunch. We had been in France for a full week and my
French skills had been improving, but today I could not seem to remember the
simplest little request.
My
fumbling was made worse by the fact that our waiter in this little village of
Azay-le-Rideau spoke no English at all. I was sure that his neutral
expression masked his disdain for this ignorant tourist. My husband
wasn’t helping either, as he kept remembering new requests.
“Il
voudrait une omelette,” I said. “He would like an omelet.”
“Did
you tell him with tomatoes, but no ham?” asked Rob.
“Avec les tomates, mais pas de … (I
quickly glanced at the word for ham on the menu)… jambon,” I
amended.
The
waiter silently made notes on his pad.
“And no
cheese,” added Rob.
“Aussi,
pas de…” Oops, what was cheese in French? All I could remember
was queso, cheese in Spanish. How could I forget
cheese? It is practically the national food of France!
I
looked up sheepishly. “Pardonez moi. Je parle francais trés mal.”
Pardon me, I speak French very badly.
Our
dignified waiter looked down at me, his eyes crinkling with the slightest
smile.
“Moi,
aussi,” he responded - Me, too.
This is adorable. I'm a big fan of busting stereotypes, so good on you, Joanie.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Babsy! As Mark Twain said, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."
DeleteFun to read, Joan. Your photographs always beautifully compliment your stories. Karen Custer Thurston
ReplyDeleteThanks, Karen. You will rarely see me without a camera around my neck on my travels!
DeleteI love these stories, Joan. So contrary to my experience in France back in the 1980s. Hugs and thanks! xoA
ReplyDeleteOnce we get together again, I'd love to hear the story about your experience, Annis! I actually DID have a rude waiter in Paris back in 1970, but that story would kind of ruin my point. :-)
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