Caroline in Paris

The first thing that Nick would want me to tell you is that there is no such thing as a “maître d’.” It means “master of.” It’s one of the stupider phrases out there. There is such a thing as a maître d’hôtel, though, and there is even a type of butter named after him. It is also commonly called “snail butter,” even though it contains neither snails nor maîtres.

While we’re on that, though, when we went out last Friday, a couple of people ordered tarte tatin (apple pie, give or take). And one by one, they all agreed that they wanted it “with ice cream.” Which was exactly what they said: “with ice cream,” not “à la mode.”

Furthermore, since “valet” is certainly originally a French word, it took me forever to figure out who the guy in the hat standing outside of Chaumette all the time was. The sign next to him reads “Service Voiturier,” and my initial interpretation was that he was directing deliveries. This idea was contradicted, though, by the fact that there never seemed to be any, and that he is only there when the restaurant is open, and by the sheer formality of the aforementioned hat. It took me weeks to realize that he is the valet; it’s just that here, his title translates to “car-er.”

I’m also learning the French style of haggling–or, at least, the preferred style in our rather genteel neighborhood. At the market yesterday, I was behind an elderly woman who wanted to buy berries. They were 2.90 per box; she wanted two for 5.00. “No, I’m sorry, that is impossible,” the seller said firmly.

At this point, I would have assumed that haggling was not done in this market (I’ve certainly never seen anyone else try), and since the woman said nothing further, it seemed at first that she had reached a similar conclusion.

Except that she didn’t move.

She just kept standing there, staring at the berries, and looking to be on the cusp of a decision, so that the seller could not politely move on to the next customer (that would be me). After about five minutes of this (the willpower was phenomenal on both sides), the seller suggested 5.50, the woman agreed, and I was finally able to buy my potatoes.

I used this lesson later in the day. I had taken two pairs of Nick’s shoes to be repaired, and when I initially came to pick them up, they had trouble finding one, and asked me to come back for it another time. I returned yesterday, and there was a flurry of confusion: my half of the ticket said 20 euros, while the half on the shoes said 28.

After establishing that I sort of speak French, the owner anxiously explained that his imbecile of a wife had mixed up the tickets, making it seem that the first pair of shoes needed more work, while the second pair needed less. When he saw the second pair, it became obvious that that was the pair that needed the extra work that he had already done on the first pair, so he had to do more than the ticket indicated to fully repair them.

“Normally, what I did here costs 28 euros,” was what all of this boiled down to.

I took a deep breath and remembered the berry woman. “Oh,” I said politely. And then I stood there.

He explained the whole thing again. He fretted; he reread the ticket; he showed me the shoes; he cursed his wife. He apologetically told me that he had done 28 euros worth of work.

“Oh,” I said politely. And then I stood there.

It took a good ten minutes of this routine, but he eventually burst out with, “Well, but of course I am not going to argue about such a small thing. Please, let’s just say 20 euros; it was our mistake.”

Language skills are obviously overrated.