Most restaurants in the US have certain laws they must abide by. Dishes must be clean, meat must be kept appropriately cool, and signs are posted everywhere about employees and hand washing.
Surely a country as bureaucratic as France has rules like these.
France has a rich tradition of food. Some of the best cooking in the world exists only here. Preparation is not just labor, but art. Gorgeous displays of deliciousness await you.
Simply said, though, some things may be a little different.
Like cats. Pretty sure there is a rule against cats in the US.
Apparently not so much here.
Bon meow.
On Paris metro maps, the RER A cinches a thick red belt across the city. The line connects the monotony of the western suburbs to the ecstasy of Disneyland. Along the way is also La Defense, also know as the largest mass of concrete, steel, and glass in Europe.
Paris boasts moves over a million people a day school on the train line. That is to say, when it is moving.
Recently, as mentioned, France is at somewhat of a crossroads. The country is watching its bank account plummet like Florida investment property and realizing maybe people are not dying fast enough. There is a suggestion that maybe they will have to work a bit longer before punching in one last time.
This notion is causing somewhat of a crisis.
Fifty years ago, there were 5 poor saps working for each retiree. Presently the ratio is two to one. In 1950, the life expectancy was around 67 (+/- male/female). Now, it is 81.5 years young. Looking back from the deep sleep, you had about 7 years after working. Now, you get 21.
However, what the system has in benefits, it may lack in fairness. For example, if you are a laborer starting work at 16 you have 46 years of manual bliss before retirement. If you start at 20, you still retire at 62, yielding 4 less years of work experience.
Regardless of which side you are on, though, if you do not like something, in France you have one answer.
Strike.
Thus the disgruntled among the French take their grievances to the street. Voices shouting, windows smashed, cars burned, and thousands queued for their turn to picket the assembly. Petrol stations run dry for lack of refueling. Garbage collectors refuse to move refuse. Police dodge stones and return fire with vitamin teargas.
So what does this have to do with the RER A?
Let’s say it can get a bit snug.
As the weather warms, eating outside becomes increasingly fashionable. Sitting on a terrace with your favorite beverage and enjoying some company is a fine way to relax.
Since this is such a fine way to relax, many people get the same idea. This communality of thinking creates what economic circles would refer to as an increase in demand.
In many areas seating space is limited. Thus, you are sitting close to strangers. The arrangement is for maximizing profits. Wasted space is a lost opportunity when demand is high.
So sometimes servers get picky about you moving.
My friend and I sit down on a busy terrace. The people next to us leave and are replaced almost immediately by two other people we know equally as well. They notice that the table wobbles. Wobbling is bad for keeping liquid in a glass.
The people next to them leave. Instead of these patrons being replaced, the one’s with the wobble move over to the less wobbly table.
This will not do.
There is a group of six ready and waiting for terrace seating. The server comes to the renegades and demands of them to return to their original accommodation to make space. The renegades demonstrate the mighty wobble and ask to sit where they are or for a new table.
Normal client/server interaction dictates that the server helps the customer with reasonable requests. You sell drinks, you sell a place to sit outside and enjoy the drinks. The customer generally admires the ability to keep the drink in the glass.
However, this is France. You must realize that servers have a job to do, and that job is not necessarily serving the customer. There are rules here and you must follow them or you will be punished.
One chair, two chairs (ah ah ah) thrown to the ground, table swapped, server pouts, chairs dashed back into place, server pouts, voila, sit now.
Please.
Of course the problem is the combination of a one-legged table and uneven ground. The customers next to us finish their drinks and depart.
Bienvenue Paris.
After immigration, electricity issues, and many of the other crazy things happening on an abnormally recurring basis, Paris is becoming routine.
Maybe it means I’m settled?
Somewhat more bizarre is to reflect and realize that this once new odyssey is now home. Many things once foreign are now routine. We get used to our situations, no matter how different from previous norms, and adapt.
Must admit, it does feel a bit comfortable.
But then maybe that means its time for something new?
La petite vache, two other friends, and I dined Ze Kitchen Gallerie recently. The place came highly recommended and did not disappoint.
La petite vache wrote a review here. Hope you enjoy.
Bon appetit.
Recently, a birthday was celebrated in my apartment. Many people stopped by and it turned out to be a good time.
There was one small snag.
The elevator in my building scares me. So much so that scarcely a finger is placed on the call button. Compared to US standards, the lift is diminutive and occasionally questionably noisy.
Taking the stairs is a great way to get exercise. Also, it is a great way to make sure you do not have to figure out how to spend two hours confined in a 2X2 (feet) box with four of your friends.
To be fair to the elevator is to say it is made for no more than 3 people. And people by French standards, where a medium sized American is more Gulliver to the Lilliputian.
My cell rings.
“We’re stuck.”
Apparently, there is a mechanism that can open the door from the inside. This is a secret, however. If you do not know it, you must rely on the speed of the repairman.
And thus for an hour, my lack of elevator knowledge shines and four people get to know each other a bit better.
So if you ever come over, I would advise using the stairs.
