So true. Which is funny, because the rude Parisian waiter is a classic stereotype. They must only be rude to Americans who sit at their tables and bray in slow, loud drawls at the garssson. In my experience, Parisian waiters are like trained commandoes. One has merely to set down the fork with a tiny bit more authority than the last time, and the plate disappears. Another one magically appears in its place, perhaps with a salad of tender baby greens, or cantaloupes embraced by prosciutto. They are sleek and efficient, silent when making dishes vanish, but calmly effusive in their praise for the food and your eating enjoyment. When Parisian waiters approve your food choice, they make it sound as if choosing le numero trois was the most splendid choice anyone with an eating orifice has ever made, and that they are holding themselves back from calling in the other waiters to witness your culinary brilliance.

In terms of le vrai Paris, it reminds me of our trip to Florence (slap me anytime for typing that sentence). We arrived late and also determined not to be sucked into the $15 cappucinos off the Duomo’s square. We stumbled into a deserted bar, staffed by a John Turturro type in a stained apron. Soccer was on a TV with the volume cranked up, except it was in Italian of course so we had no clue who was winning. With our rudimentary Italian (consisting of the phrases, “two tickets to see James Bond, please”, and “may I try these shoes on?”), we managed to communicate that we wanted the roast chicken. That chicken, served in that dingy bar to the romantic soundtrack of Italian men screaming, was the best goddamned chicken I have had to this day.

In other words: MAN TRUE!