I swear: for the most part, I think that travelers who complain about French rudeness are either reacting to unfamiliar customs, or had been a bit rude themselves, and were just witnessing retaliation.
Apparently, on Saturdays, I am wrong.
Admittedly, the first incident was partly my fault. Nick and I paused during a long, rambling walk to sit in a café overlooking the Luxembourg gardens (isn’t that just how you picture us?), and the chairs were impossible. Not only did they have ridiculously long arms, but the armrests curved forward again as they went down to the seat, so that by the time they joined the seat, the two were the same length. And my chair was backed up against the wall. Getting up was enough of an adventure, but I misjudged when I sat back down, and managed to bump into the only full glass left on the table, which was my hot cinnamon milk (I’m trying all of their hot milks on this trip).
Milk and puns went all over the place, and the waiter was nowhere to be seen, leaving us staring across a milky table at each other for a few shocked minutes until Nick went for napkins himself. By the time the waiter returned, we had mostly cleaned it up ourselves, but Nick felt that the waiter was rather brusque all the same, throwing a towel and making faces.
Under those circumstances I might have been brusque, as well, but the incident turned out to be nothing but a foreshadow of our waiter at dinner.
There’s this great little place up near the Sorbonne that has a wonderful fondue prix-fixe: you get a pre-dinner drink, fondue for two, and then either chocolate fondue, or a dessert of your choice (Nick’s father is trying all of their ice cream sundaes on this trip). The first time that we went, Nick warned me that they would simply not bring anything else until we had both finished our appératifs–that is the sort of French service that Americans often feel is rude, but is actually expected and appropriate behavior here. Consequently, if you ever feel that you are being rushed out of a café or restaurant in France, it is appropriate to be disgusted, and never return.
Now, I know that we were early (7:00!), and I know that the waiter aspired to fit an extra seating in at our table, and I know that he heard us speaking English and figured that we wouldn’t know any better. But my hackles were up as soon as he brought the wine out halfway through the appératifs, and when that was followed immediately by the meal, he had made some enemies.
To guarantee an insulting tip, he did not have to ask us, after we had paid, if we would like anything else, because he had another reservation. But he did it anyway.
Luckily, I have brought over most of the fondue set that Nick gave me last year, so we are completely prepared to boycott La Piano Muette until our feelings are no longer hurt. And I suggest that you do the same.
To round off the evening, the cab driver who brought us home did not even remotely acknowledge our quite generous tip (they really always do, here), so we have decided to spend our Saturdays in from now on. It might be catching, after all, and we rather enjoy being polite to each other.