The Paris welcome

by David Benjamin

“Paris is the city of joy where the naive are taken by the neck and blackened on the scaffold, and where villains hold all sway … Purse-cutters and knifemen lurk in the dark.”
―François Villon

PARIS—Neither Hotlips nor I were born here, or anywhere nearby, nor do we hold the precious carte de séjour that bestows the blessings of unquestioned residency. But our frequent presence in Paris, over more than three decades, qualifies us, at least, as habitués. This status regularly occasions an onset of the “Paris welcome.”

A week ago we headed for lunch at a bistro in our neighborhood called La Pie Noir, its name derived from a certain sort of Holstein cow bred in Brittany. We were looking forward to seeing Gandalf, a longhaired dachshund who reigns placidly over the place from a bar stool at the entrance. So, as soon as we entered, we asked after the dog. Lille, the proprietress, smiling and waving us to a table by the window, said that, alas, Gandalf was off hiking with the Boss, her husband. Before we could sit down, Cassandra, the daughter, was all over us, welcoming us back, glowing and effervescing, pouring water, practicing her English.

This was only our third visit to La Pie Noir, which is one of our “finds,” both for its excellent cuisine and its hospitality. As usual, while she took turns serving our food (razor clams, a cheesy ravioli, a fish for Hotlips, a lamb shank for me, bread from Éric Kayser), wine and water, Cassandra insisted on taking photos with us. After lunch and espresso, before we could leave, Lille came over with two glasses of menthe douce, a clear peppermint digestif that cleansed our palates and perked up our ears. When we left, somewhat reluctantly, we had to pass through a gauntlet of two hugs and four kisses from our hostesses, who gave me a little gift and promised that Gandalf would return.

This effusive phenomenon at La Pie Noir has become a familiar pleasure among all our Paris haunts because we’re “regulars.” When, for example, I call to reserve a table at a certain fish restaurant in Montparnasse, I need only mention my name and the voice of the maitre d’ takes on a warm tone of camaraderie. There is no species of patron in Paris more honored and cosseted than a regular (a status that can come as swiftly as a second visit). The difference between a tourist—who, at best, receives a courteous greeting (if he called ahead and reserved) and service that is proper and punctilious—and a regular is the difference between coming home to a hot meal with family and gnawing a stand-up sandwich in a train station.

Essential to the Paris welcome is that the staff at many restaurants and shops here turns over not monthly or yearly but generationally. When Michel, the senior waiter at Chez René, was about to retired, he came to our table, shook our hands and bid us both an adieu that was almost tearful. Over the years, we had often recommended Chez René to friends visiting Paris. Most described Michel as one of the scariest (but most professional) waiters they had ever met. We understood. Michel was a hard nut to crack. He didn’t treat Hotlips and me as regulars until he had waited in us at least six times. After that, he was Uncle Mike.

So, why is it that so many Americans come away from their encounters here insisting that Parisians are the rudest people on earth. I’ve tested a number of theories to explain this perception. But the one I favor lately is the “One of Us Effect.”

Hotlips and I have had the good fortune to live in several of the biggest, least amiable cities in the world—Tokyo, New York and Paris—as well as smaller cities in California and Wisconsin. In every town, big or small, the residents develop a “style” peculiar to themselves and neighbors and discernibly different from outsiders passing through. At home in Madison, I partake of an attitude known as “Wisconsin nice,” a friendliness so expansive that I’m even kind to Ohio State football fans when the Buckeyes come to town.

In the big city, my crouch is more defensive and my shell a mite thicker. In Paris, I’ve developed a style that reflects a native milieu. I go urban. Urbanites, in New York, Paris, Berlin, everywhere, blend in by dressing a certain way, by shoes, hairstyle and color choices, by what they carry, by the way they move and direct their eyes. You can tell natives from outsiders from how they walk, cross the street, or enter a shop. In Paris, you greet the staff in a small shop and—even if you’re in and out in thirty seconds without buying anything—you say, “Merci. Au revoir.” Tourists don’t.

By looking around in Paris, an habitant can tell immediately, astutely, who belongs—who knows—and who’s just passing through. You’re one of us, or you’re not. And if you’re not, we’re not quite as nice.
The “One of Us Effect” is hardly unique to Paris. But, because Paris processes so many sightseers and bus tours, this distinction is pronounced and—to its victims—bothersome. There are ways to overcome it, pretty quickly. I could give lessons.

(For instance, if you don’t wear Bermudas, a t-shirt, a ballcap and sneakers without socks to the office back home on Main Street in Gopher Prairie, don’t dress like that when you walk into a respectable restaurant on the carrefour de l’Odéon.)

Besides the continuity of personnel in so many service businesses, one of the reasons that Paris seems to cherish its regulars so dearly is that it’s not so much a metropolis as a patchwork of villages. Our village, for example, is the Latin Quarter, mostly concentrated in the Fifth (out of twenty) Arrondissement. There are Parisians in the Eleventh or Seventh who never venture into a neighboring arrondissement. They are regulars in an almost pathological sense. Hotlips and I are not so quartier-centric that we never cross the Seine. But on a typical morning, our first contacts are the mom and pop at the news kiosk on blvd. St.-Michel, who save me a copy of the New York Times. We get our coffee and pastry at the neighborhood viennoiserie by merely greeting our favorite hostess and finding a table. We don’t have to order. We get the “usual.” The waitress at L’Annexe, where I have my second coffee and write my travel diary, also knows what I’m having as soon as she sees me—and smiles.

We have a regular vegetable guy at the farmer’s market at the place Maubert, who always asks Hotlips about me if I’m not with her (and vice versa). Hotlips tells the butcher at place Maubert what she’s cooking that night, so that he can recommend the right cut of meat and compare notes on her recipe. When we visit the marché at place Monge, the jolly cheese lady lights up at the sight of us and augments our purchase with a slab of tomme de brebis or a wedge of camembert—free.

Once, coming home from our fish restaurant, we were in need of a bottle of wine for the next day, but it was late. Most wineshops had closed. But as we passed Le Quin Cave on rue Bréa, the door was open. Hesitantly, we entered. The owner, large, florid and friendly, descended on us. We asked about a nice drinkable vin rouge and he took us on a voluble tour of his racks and cubbyholes. While we were considering our choice, another couple came in. The owner quietly asked us to wait while he disposed of them, and, after they’d left, he closed and locked the door. His name, he told us, was Frederic and he liked to have a little bubbly after closing up. But he hated to drink alone.

So, a little after midnight, at the oak bar in the back of Le Quin Cave, we shared a bottle of pinkish champagne with our new friend, Frederic, who had looked us over and recognized that we were all, somehow, despite our language barrier and disparate roots—in Wisconsin, in Tokyo, in Languedoc—“one of us.”

Call it “Paris nice.”