We made it back to a land of reasonable fall weather and moderately priced alcohol! And good thing, because so far my time in Paris has been consumed by wandering around outside and ordering whatever wine I can most quickly point to on the menu. We slept almost the whole day yesterday except a brief excursion outside the apartment to eat dinner and see Fleet Foxes, both of which were just lovely. “Just lovely” is basically how I continue to describe all of Paris, except the Waiter v. Pastry Chef death fight which I will get to in a moment.
Rebecca will have to work this week, so it’s just me taking on Paris during the day today through Friday and we will see how I fare. It’s my third time here and I’ve been lucky enough to have checked off such exciting items as going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, bumbling around the Louvre like a teen idiot, and sneaking flasks into an All Blacks rugby match, so this week I am specifically training my sights on eating, covering inordinate amounts of ground on foot, and wandering around non-Louvre museums alone.
Rebecca taught me this morning about Paris’s Arrondissements, which she explained are neighborhoods arranged in a giant Fibonacci sequence that wrap like a snail shell around the 1st Arrondissement. As Rebecca lives in the 2nd, it makes an excellent jumping off point for traipsing around the Tuileries and all of the museums and pretty-type things around the Louvre in the 1st.
I briefly thought about revisiting the Louvre and then immediately dashed that thought when I saw the insane line, so instead I watched two dog walkers play fetch with about 40 adorable dogs in front of the Louvre for 10 minutes and then shifted course to the D’Orsay, which I’d never had a chance to visit. I’ll hit on the D’Orsay and L’Orangerie in a separate post, partly because there are all kinds of things to opine on regarding picture-taking culture, Monet’s effect on humans, Van Gogh being cool and more, but mainly because I really want to get to the mealtime hysterics and of course the cafe street fight.
The best thing about cafes in Paris is that they are exactly like you’d imagine them to be from all of those Van Gough paintings you’ve seen. Bread, cheese, cigarettes, outdoor patios teeming with lingerers, teeny tiny tables, wine at 2 PM. The waiters wear smart, chic outfits, bring “le machine” over to the table for you to pay, and don’t look at you funny when you order the “extra big” wine and not just the “little” wine because c’mon, amirite?
Rebecca’s neighborhood boasts a number of sweet little cafes all huddled together on a street crossing and I sat myself down at one for a late lunch today, during which time I had the distinct pleasure of watching one of those nondescript type of crazy persons (as my friend Margaret so eloquently put it, you have no idea about their socioeconomic status but you have one hell of an idea about their crazy status) get into a very drawn out fight with the waiters at my establishment. Clearly he comes by and bothers people a lot because they spotted him immediately and were incensed that he was bumming a light from a patron. After he and a waiter nearly came to blows, he spent a good 30 minutes just indignantly standing in the street, directing traffic, and giving a very passionate middle finger in the direction of our cafe. It was lovely.
I later walked an accidental 1.5 miles on top of the 4 from the afternoon to meet Rebecca and her friend by Rebecca’s office, and although the wine and cheese was “just lovely,” the main event was watching a guy on a date try to smoothly pay for his date while she was in the bathroom but instead get tangled up in his metal chair, fall-slash-drag it for about 5 feet trying to regain his balance, and then, just when he freed himself from the chair, trip into a nearby pile of equally loud metal stools before ultimately slamming into the counter. I’ve never laughed so hard directly in someone’s face and I still feel bad about it. We could not stop. The waiter came over to our table to pour more wine (why not) and tried to gently tell us that maybe we might want to consider stopping laughing because the guy looked really embarrassed. And this is probably why people in Paris hate Americans.
Anyway, the cherry on top of the cafe circus sundae was actually to come next, back in Rebecca’s hood, where we were kicking back at our little local haunt and night capping with a few too many (more) glasses of wine because whatever at least one of us didn’t have to work. At one point I had to run to the bathroom and I overheard a heated fight coming from the kitchen which I mentioned to Rebecca in the fashion of “oh, just an angry French chef down there how typical, hahah!” Except next Rebecca goes to the bathroom and before I have a chance to finish my 19th glass of wine, Angry Pastry Chef (who looks more like a MMA fighter vs a confectioner) and Sweet Nice Waiter are in the middle of the street (and 3 feet away from our table) screaming at each other. Next, Pastry Chef starts brandishing a knife, Sweet Little Waiter somehow pulls a crazy scrappy power move and knocks Angry Pastry Chef off balance, and they are rolling around in the street punching each other in the face. Mind you there are like 15 tables at three collective restaurants who are just watching this unfold plus a table of smug Parisians indoors at our cafe, and no one is doing anything but laughing and saying French things except of course for me as I am convinced that someone is about to die. Next, the Maître D’ and the friendly rival waiters from the cafe across the street start to make their way over to break it up, and now I’m thinking things will die down because other people have gotten involved except, no, I’m completely incorrect and next the Sweet Little Waiter grabs an extra chair from our table and starts rabidly attempting to beat forcibly restrained Angry Pastry Chef over the head with it – I think he made partial shoulder-area contact twice before said chair weapon was disarmed by the Maître D’. All the while, I have quite calmly retreated from my cafe table and placed myself behind the protective layer of storefront glass, and the fight is finally effectively dissipated now that Angry Pastry Chef has had enough and stalks away down the street. Rebecca finally emerges and I say something along the lines of “um, so there was just this huge fight and our waiter got attacked by that pastry chef and then he tried to crush his skull with one of our chairs…and that is why I am in here and I’m afraid” and the smug Parisian students in the restaurant with us start laughing at me and say – in English so I can hear it – “Americans are so sensitive.”
I’m sorry, and I enjoy a good crazy person street fight as much as the next guy, but I think it’s reasonable that I draw the line at knife threats and chair beating when it’s happening 3 feet away and they are using part of my own table setup as a weapon, but I mean I guess that’s just me and I’m a total tourist. So whatever. Bring on the knives and chairs.
Our Sweet a Waiter was surprisingly relaxed when he came back to our table, said “sorry about that” and then asked if we wanted more wine, so we just said “Oh, yeah that’s ok, and yes.” C’est la vie.
Im headed up to Montmartre tomorrow to wander and be starry-eyed so stay tuned until then; I’ll certainly let everyone know if our fondue restaurant reservations tomorrow end in an angry line cook dumping a boiling pot of cheese on the head of an impertinent waiter.
