Paris: Home of Manners (the best, the WORST, and interesting mixtures)

Allow me to discuss, for a moment, the interesting scenario of a Francophile dining in Paris. I have come to view the situation as an opportunity of tiny victory or immense defeat.

Such is it like being a foreigner in another country – the daily rituals accumulate massive importance, whether it be for their sudden potential difficulty, or their simple strangeness. Before Paris, I had never really been to a bakery that wasn’t outside of a supermarket. Before Paris, I had never not been urged to eat, drink, and get the hell out of whatever restaurant I happened to choose for my meal. These concepts, though simple, can be very strange for the foreigner – “Cool! A store that only sells bread!” one may say, or “It’s been forty-five minutes. The check is finally here, and I don’t have to leave immediately upon payment?”

In any case, I return to the French-as-a-second-language speaker attempting to eat or get service in any place that speaks real French – none of that academic mumbo jumbo. There are two of six situations that the speaker will face, based on his mastery of the language and the temperament of the server:

1) Server completely ignores eight years of study on behalf of the foreigner and speaks English, either with a begrudging cold shoulder or with an amused, patronizing smile. Thanks for trying, monsieur, but keep your dayjob. Defeat. Why did I even study??
2) Server is delighted that you are attempting his language and is happy to politely correct you, if need be. Makes the experience generally worthwhile and slightly uplifting. Victory!
3) Server speaks in French very quickly, so as to confuse you. Server hates that you came to his country, and that your country is bigger, richer, and more imposing upon the innocent masses than his. Ultimate defeat – unless, of course, the foreigner is able to understand and respond to the server in kind. Ultimate victory!

There are variations upon these situations, but for the most part one of those three has been the case for all of my dining experiences so far. I have encountered a few politely confused servers and a few that just seem to avoid me as much as possible – moreso than the norm for French service. Thus far, I have been lucky to have mostly positive experiences – many waiters have abounded with Gallic charm and wit, happy to answer questions about the language. I knew a couple times I have unknowingly violated cultural norms, and what could be so easy can turn out to be rather stressful. Yet I try my best, and I think the French appreciate that. Even if they do all stare at me when I walk into the neighborhood bar.

As my grafted (thank you BLAST) title indicates, there is some truth to the Anglo-American perception that the French are rude. I think grumpy is a more applicable word, because even the most flustered French server I have encountered has not strayed from saying Merci, au revoir monsieur. The French I have encountered are near redundantly polite, to the point that they must think all of us Anglo-Saxons (if you live in America, Great Britain, Canada, or Australia, you are Anglo-Saxon. Period.) are just downright savages. And sometimes I’m inclined to the sentiment. People greet you as you go into stores and restaurants in America, but theirs is a feigned politeness, a too-eager-to-be-your-buddy familiarity that offsets shy, introverted fellows such as myself. But in France, what many people perceive as an aloofness appears to me as the respect one only receives at the nicest places in America. “Bonjour monsieur” says much more to me than “Hey, how are you? How many?” Everyone is a monsieur or a madame/mademoiselle here.

It is so refreshing to have to say please and thank you, to say hello and goodbye when entering or leaving a store or restaurant, and to be responded to in kind. Even if you have just had a horrible experience, when leaving, you had damn well better say Merci, au revoir (and maybe bonne journée/soirée) – otherwise, who knows what could happen. This rigid, weighty social norm is just impossible to avoid, or so it seems to me. Even if one is just asking for say a map of the Montparnasse Cemetery from the gate guard, one must say hello to him first – or else! I’ve been too afraid to knowingly break this rule. For the most part the various servers and employees I have encountered have been too nice or at least bitterly polite to warrant my even considering an impolite move; but that very consideration is my Anglo-Saxon-ness coming through. It seems to be absurd to consider the impolite here; as absurd as it is to consider not tipping the server in America. Both actions would be the result of extreme circumstances.

I have to admit, I take silent pleasure in this pervasion of politeness. It makes you feel good, really. Sure, you can’t smile at anyone on the street (more forbidden than not saying bonjour/au revoir, I think), but you can still feel good that someone said thank you and goodbye just because you walked into their store and didn’t buy anything. Such is one of the strange paradoxes of French culture I have heard so much about, and am quickly discovering: everyone looks miserable, but as a whole, people here are certainly removed from the gloom and anger of the East Coast. One can feel it, in the air, and hear it in the voices of the children drifting over the walls of churchyards. I almost scoffed when Cormac McCarthy wrote about America that “It’s when folks stop using sir and ma’am that we’ll be in trouble” – but after being here, I think I agree with him.