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Oui! Oui!

The Source

I think it was my first meal eaten overseas. My little group of intrepid student travelers had landed in Paris and immediately sought out our first taste of foreign cuisine. Finding a bistro on one of Parisian side streets, I herded by Morgan and Cass County students into a small cluster of tables and immediately discovered that none of us spoke French. A sign on the front of the place said, “English spoken,” but perhaps it was referring to the dishwasher. The waiter’s name was Paul. That much I remember. The rest of the evening was a blur as we stumbled our way through the meal, pointing to items on the menu then shrugging our shoulders at the waiter as if to say, “Could you tell me if I’m ordering soup or the Eifel Tower?” Paul tried his best, really. But patience is not a part of a French waiter’s vocabulary and before long my little crew of 17 hungry Americans began to grate on him. It’s not like we were the perfect guests. I cringed through the meal as I heard my students ask questions like, “Do any of these words spell hamburger?” and “Do you have any American food?” My stomach, already growling from 12 hours of airport and airline food was beginning to churn with embarrassment as I made my way around the tables trying to teach a fast course in manners. When in Rome, do as the Romans. When in France, good luck, Bubba. Waiter Paul did have one very clever trick. Our tables featured paper tablecloths and Paul would write the order right down on the corner of the paper, then boldly rip it off after he’d taken the order. When he delivered our food he merely matched the jigsaw pattern of each order with the ripped pattern in the table covering. Ingenious. But the one event of the evening that sticks out most vividly in my mind is when a young lady in my group whose name was Jodi asked Paul if she could have some ketchup. Paul said, “Pardon?” Jodi used the typical American trick of speaking more loudly, figuring that the entire continent of Europe had gone deaf the moment our plane had landed. “Ketchup. Ketchup!” Paul finally caught on and said, “For what?” Said Jodi, “My meat.” Paul looked at her a moment then firmly said, “No.” And therein we discovered the difference between the typical American and French restaurants. When you order a Big Mac in Jacksonville, the meal becomes yours. In Paris every morsel belongs to the owner, no matter whose stomach may carry it home. It was Paul’s meat and you will not sully it with your silly American condiments. And that was that. Our first reaction was shock. We had been raised in the land of The Customer is Always Right Even When He’s Wrong, but on this night we were confronted with What Does the Customer Know? It’s My Food! And I’ll be honest: I rather admired the attitude. If nothing else it taught my students a short lesson in humility. But more than that, it showed us that Paul had pride in his business. He wasn’t being especially uppity or rude. He simply knew that he worked at a good restaurant, the chef made good food, and their combined years of experience knew how it should be eaten for maximum enjoyment. I’m sure that Paul had a bottle of ketchup somewhere in his boudoir, but he also knew the best way to enjoy a meal. Of course, he could have been wrong, but I doubt it. He was French. The French are never wrong. I know because they’ve told me that. Pride of ownership. Pride in our work. I like that. Later that night in the hotel we were joking about Jodi and her ketchup and I asked them that if they felt the girl behind the fast food counter in Illinois had any stake, any pride in the sandwich she sets before you. Is the “associate” in the American mega store proud of the sweatpants she’s helped you find or the toaster you just purchased? I recently sat down at Norma’s North Star Café just off the Jacksonville Square, and heard the cooks back in the kitchen joking about the name for the chicken on the night’s menu. I can’t for the life of me remember how one cook was pronouncing it, but it caused enough hilarity that you could hear the joy rolling out of the kitchen. I asked the waitress about the party going on in the kitchen and she told me that the chicken was really tasty but no one could pronounce it correctly. I asked her what else was good on that particular evening and she described each dish in such loving detail that I wanted to take the menu home a souvenir. The lady had pride in her business. I like that. It even made the chicken taste better, and I didn’t ask for ketchup.