Paris, once trumpeted “the city of waiters,” at some point has undergone a priority shift. Dining has evolved into negotiating the laboriously slow service of a meal via an aloof garcon. Still, tact must be applied to evasively dine amongst the French and their cigarettes. Tableside manner peppered with discretion and a phony degree of formality is the recipe. Take it or leave it, these stolen moments are often the most memorable.

An afternoon pause for coffee is an entitlement of life within French borders, preferable when infused with friendly conversation or the words of a stimulating book. In training to become French, or more so, to speak the language and acquire a few French vices, I invited Laurie to join me for a cup. After ordering a pair of café au lait in the best accent we could summon, the waiter paused. There was no smile to reward our efforts. Coldly, he replied, “café crème?” Our first lesson: Café aux lait is coffee laced with milk, drank in the morning, at home, from the vessel of a bowl. Stored away for our next séance were the words café crème, entitling us to espresso with a shot of cream made to the specification of petite or grande.

In the company of her husband, Laurie received another chiding. “You’re so rude,” he told her. “You have to say s’il vous plait.” The common courtesy of a please is expected when asking for anything from directions to dinner.

Rarely is a glass of water served upon arrival and requests are often met with the bottled variety. The very drinkable Paris tap variety is presented upon the demand for “une carafe d’eau.” Beverages are served chilled rather than iced. If a desired accompaniment, expect no more than a few “glaçons” per request, presented in a bowl to be labeled out by spoon.

The saying “the customer is always right” most certainly does not apply to business in France. Upon finishing a plate, as the waiter clears the table he’ll ask, “How was it?” The truth of the matter being that he expects the stock response, “Très bien,” not your advice on how to improve the recipe.

Time stands still. There is no rush to turn over tables. Numerous plates of modest proportion are staggered throughout the meal. Most economic are the menus that offer a choice of plat, entrée, and dessert at a set price. Friendships are maintained through the act of dining together. Lingering after the meal to sip on espresso or a digestif, conversations continue uninterrupted until the request is made. “L’addition, s’il vous plait,” or the international gesture for check please work equally as well. Never a to-go box to tote away, all be it, a trend that many would like to see take hold.

Though addressing your waiter in a formal manner is expected, a tip in not. Rounding up to the euro for an attentive simple service, or a few euros left on the table after an enjoyable meal is remerciement enough. Because their paycheck is not dependant on the service provided, waiters have license to render service at their leisure, rarely accompanied by a smile.

Making our way back to the same table of the same café, greeted by the same waiter, we requested the same round of café crème. With no outward sign of recognition, no implied courtesy, he scribed our order into his pad. Waiting for our drinks, I commented, “Surely by the end of the week he’ll flash us a smile or greet us with a convivial hello.” It became a game of sorts. Would he warm to us after we began a ritual of daily appearances? After a week, the answer was no. Growing tired of his snobbery we set a deadline. Either he’d display an outward sign of recognition, for example, happening to remember what we’d like to drink, or, we’d take our business elsewhere. It was time to move on.

After making the circuit of surrounding establishments, we reached the verdict that both the café and atmosphere of lofty windows overlooking the Montparnasse Cemetery were superior at the jazzy Raspail Vert. Back to square one, in lieu of cordiality we opted for ambience and flavor. And just when we’d given up on our sour faced friend, he surprised us.

Not without intricacies, the French café is as much a part of the culture as wine and cheese. What one considers inconvenience is another’s pleasure. It is in these moments, stolen from the day’s grind, when time loses gravity that poetic memories are written.

“Sometimes we used to enter secret wayside cafes. There might be a step down, and there was always a table to choose in the silence or the murmur of speech. A shadow was the most ancient of the regulars. A long, long time she had sat at every place. The sun would be there, on good terms with her, lying upon her forehead, on your hand, on a glass. And soon he left, like a god one forgets. During these halts that seemed to become eternal, experience came to us, and we always left these secret cafes subtly changed from what we had been before.” Guillevic, from Stopping Along the Way

For other images and quotes, I like this book...