Could these guys BE any more French?

1 – They eat cheese with almost every meal.  Not a slice, a giant hunk of cheese. And the smellier the better. Even children; I watched as Arnaud’s 3 year old niece happily munched on a lump the size of her head.

2 – They drink wine with almost every meal.

3 – They accomplish 1. and 2. without getting fat.  How they manage this should be the subject of boundless scientific study so that we may apply their methods in the States. I gained three pounds in six days.

4 – They make a dish called Raclette.  First you have special cheese, and you melt copious slices of the stuff which you then pour all over your “charcuterie” – a vast array of cold meats and hams that represent at least one entire animal per person at the table – and a giant bowl of mashed potatoes.  It’s like eating joy.  And for me, it’s like pouring fat into my thighs.  Because I’m not French (see number 3.)

Raclette. The first of many plates' worth

5- Meals are long drawn out affairs where the whole group/family gets together, eats, laughs, shares stories. It is started by the nearly religious Apéros – Cocktails with nibbles to warm up the stomach. Dinner can easily take two hours to complete, and that’s at home, not in a restaurant.

6 – They don’t believe in queuing.  You could easily lose an eye as some old lady rams her elbow in your face as she barges past you to get on the metro first. In an emergency, the French die from trampling each other in a mass exodus where everyone is for themselves.

7 – The abysmal service in restaurants is actually quite entertaining if you pay attention.  Not caring, and being able to master an indifferent shrug on demand if your patron’s meal arrives cold or very late is part of the waiter’s job requirement.

The Gredin Family, dining together

8 – Kissing.  Not French Kissing per se, though I am grateful they gave the name to that loveliest of pastimes, but the required two to four kisses you give to everyone in the room each time you enter and leave it. The sweet panic you feel each time you forget how many times you’re supposed to do it.  And how a conversation between two people never commences prior to kissing.

9 – Strikes.  The French are very adamant about their right to work only required hours, their right to reimbursed health care, their right to retirement at 62 provided by the state, their right to go on vacation for six weeks every year, and of course, their right to strike if any of these expectations are not met or promised.  I love that.  In the US, we just expect to, well, get nothing.

10 – They’re not afraid to show they don’t like you. Forget the polite veneer of tolerance, you’ll not be left wondering if someone is genuinely interested in you, or is just pretending.

The Paris Cafe

Easy answer.  The Café culture.

I was recently lucky enough to be invited to spend a week in Paris with my Parisian boyfriend, Arnaud, who had to return to France to renew his work visa for the US.  Apart from staying with his family in Cergy for the weekend, which was both a familial and gastronomic delight, we had a corporate expensed hotel room in the 5eme arondissement near Montparnasse.  Who could refuse?

Arnaud had to work for most of the working week, and I busied myself on this, my fourth visit to the French capital, with miles and miles of walking the neighborhoods, taking photographs, drinking in the atmosphere of it all.  And, of course, the obligatory two to three stops per day to sample sweet delicious and watch the world go by in Paris cafes.

Le Croque Monsieur

There is something very unique about Paris cafes, and I think it’s because they are as much a fundamental part of a Parisian’s life as is their daily commute on the Metro.  Coffee is taken very seriously, and is always served as an espresso in the mandatory teeny cup.  Except for me, of course, the perennially annoying “touriste” who insists on ruining her café by having it “au lait”, or worse yet (quel horreur!) in a big bowl, which I greedily devoured in a street café in the Montmartre.

I love cafes not just for the people watching and for the delicious cakes, pastries and croque monsieurs; which by the way is the world’s best sandwich.  Hello? Béchamel sauce baked in with cheesy hammy wonder? I’m drooling just thinking about it.  But I digress.  I love cafes in Paris because each time I have a secret personal competition in my head as to where I can find the worst-mannered wait staff.

You see, they already hate me when they hear my English (or American, depends on whether you’re English or American) accented French.  And they usually respond in English because they know it will piss me off.  But then I go and massacre their sacred café by ordering it in a bowl and then they can’t slam down the silverware on my table hard enough.

Do you hear them screaming "Eat me!"?

I find it incredibly amusing.  And refreshing.  In the States, the over-the-top false niceness of service can sometimes be downright irritating.  But they’re working for a tip, so one can understand.  In Paris, I sometimes felt I had to stand and wave my arms above my head just to get a server’s attention.

It’s a good thing for French waiters that the l’addition typically includes the tip.  So they can roll their eyes at you, mutter under their breath, slam your food on the table, and still wish you a “Bonne Journee” without breaking a smile.

Ahhhh, Paris.