Kathleen, Queen of the Desert

And where are the French waitresses?

I had my first rude–or incompetent, or overworked, or poorly trained, or just dumb young male–waiter experience last Sunday afternoon. Otherwise Sunday was perfect with sunny skies, cool temperatures, and no wind. The tourists were out, the mood was festive, and I was winding up my walk in the St. Germain des Pres quartier (neighborhood). Restaurant and cafe business was booming around 2 o’clock.

I sat down at Cafe du Bucherie, a place where I’d enjoyed breakfast before, and waited. I wasn’t impatient. I had books, my journal, and my French dictionary. Ten minutes went by.

The table next to me was lively. A British family of four had come in five minutes after me and was celebrating a daughter’s 17th birthday. Our waiter gasped in mock horror on learning they were from England. (England had beaten France in rugby the night before.) The waiter brought over another waiter to banter with the Brits. It was oh so jolly at their table as they showed off to the teenaged daughters.

I assumed our waiter would then scan my direction since my table was in his serving section, so I was not waving my arms or calling out “Monsieur!” (sir!). And I certainly wasn’t going to yell, “Garcon!” (boy) like a rube. You only hear that in old movies. Arm waving like a rube seemed to be in order, however, because our waiter took the Brits’ order, spun around, grabbed a handful of menus, and disappeared. Okay, I can wait a bit. I have my books, journal, and dictionary. Another ten minutes goes by. I’m not in a big honkin’ American hurry.

I finally get the waiter’s attention as he’s striding past with a tray of beers. I say, “Monsieur, la carte, s’il vous plait!” (Sir, the menu, please!). The waiter says, “English?” Thinking he wants to rib me about the rugby game, I answer, “Non, je suis Americaine.” I was going to say something about how I didn’t understand rugby at all and preferred baseball. He looks confused and says, “The English menu?” Maybe he’s befuddled that I would think he cares in any way where I come from. I say yes to wanting the dishes printed in English, so he leaves a menu on my table, spins around, and disappears again.

The menu he left is just for drinks. Everybody else in Cafe de Bucherie is having plates of chicken, fish, beef, omelettes, some good-looking salads, and piles of fried potatoes. Why would he think I’m here just to drink? I wait for him again, reading my books, writing in my journal, looking up some French words. Time’s starting to drag.

I overhear two tables of women to my left complain about how long it’s taking to get their bills. They’re well-dressed, middle-aged, and enjoying each other’s company. I notice there’s another middle-aged couple in my section who’ve been sitting looking at their guidebooks for a long time over a disarray of a messy, finished meal. Does our waiter want to let them enjoy themselves, not bother them with financial details, not want to interrupt their good time in Paris? Whatever the reason, another unattended 10 minutes go by.

But I also notice that there’s an older woman eating by herself in the middle of the restaurant. She’s finishing her meal, eating the last bits of bread from her basket, and is drinking the last of her wine. She has a different waiter.

I had this picture in my head of a nice Sunday meal on this beautiful day, eating a nice meal with the rest of the great Parisian crowd. I was looking forward to a salad, something I don’t fix for myself at the apartment. A meal with several food groups represented, not just the bread (great though it is from my local boulanger–baker–at Maison Collet) and cheese and juice from my local marche.

I also had a picture of myself as the gracious American tourist, not a demanding American policewoman on the lookout for wait staff wrongdoing. We’re on vacation, we want to be romantic, relaxed, genial, appreciative, full of great stories about our great time in Paris. We don’t want to be the petulant, sour tourist with tales of rip-offs and slights. We’ve heard from those tourists, and we don’t want to be them. 

I was also looking forward to eating all of this meal, too. Parisian restaurants don’t offer to wrap your leftovers in any way. I should go to Monoprix and get a plastic container for my leftover occasions. It’s now been an hour since I first sat down at my little table with sugar spilled on it.

Still no food menu and no service. An omlette and pancakes at the IHOP on 13th in my Utah suburb is starting to sound really good. The British woman at the next table looks at me, perhaps realizing the inequality of the situation. I slowly pack up the books, move the tiny chairs away from my tiny table, shoulder the backpack, and walk away toward the Seine. I’m still hungry as I cross over in front of Notre Dame. It’s still a beautiful day as I muse on hating to depend on an overworked, underpaid, young, male cafe employee for food. Maybe the “tax value added” on every bill causes some of this wait staff indifference.

As I’m leaving, one of the four neglected women–a French woman–complains to our waiter. The waiter is arguing with her and shrugging his shoulders as I head out to find a non-French place to eat. Near my own neighborhood I find an excellent Lebanese manouche (puffed flat bread with herbs and filling) with taboule at a street market. The Lebanese young man who prepares the manouche is a study in respect and cheerful attentiveness.