Stuff Parisians Like

by Olivier Magny

  That reality is nonnegotiable. Parisians will never accept that anyone would pay a compliment to Parisian waiters. Bitching about them is one of the rare things that connects Parisians to the rest of the world.

  A Parisian never wonders about the cause of what he reckons to be poor service. He will systematically dodge the question by saying, “C’est pas de ma faute s’il a un job de merde.” Usually adding, “Y a trois millions de chômeurs. S’il est pas content, qu’il fasse un autre boulot, putain.” (“There are three million people unemployed. If you’re not happy, go find yourself another job, putain.”) Parisians are people of compassion. They will never put their own rudeness and absence of smiles in question. Neither will he ever include tipping in the beautiful scale of his transatlantic comparisons.

  In Paris, clients and waiters don’t think much of each other. In an admirable whirlwind of reciprocal passive aggression, tensions add up and poor service usually ensues.

  For that matter, when one day, for some peculiar reason, the Parisian or the waiter happens to be in a good mood, the interaction feels like a fresh breeze in the desert, a lightning bolt of conviviality. The waiter will immediately be qualified as hyper sympa. The Parisian will enjoy the moment immensely and ultimately pass the address on to all his friends.

  The idea to try to be friendlier in order to make happier moments less rare never crosses the Parisian’s mind: C’est pas à moi d’être aimable, putain.

  Clearly, the Parisian is not ready for America.

  USEFUL TIP: Parisian waiters like dirty jokes.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Il est vraiment pas aimable, c’est dingue. (“He really isn’t friendly, it’s crazy.”)

  Criticizing Parisians

  Parisians love Paris. But they hate Parisians.

  Most Parisians grow up with a more or less conscious belief in the superiority of Parisians. Because France is an eminently centralized country, Paris concentrates all economic, artistic, and political powers. The brain drain toward Paris is—it seems—brutally at hand. Parisians are the elite of the country. End of the story.

  As they grow in age, Parisians get to interact more frequently with people who grew up in different areas of the country and of the world. These encounters end up shedding a new light on their fellow Parisians.

  By interacting with provinciaux and étrangers, Parisians realize these categories of people have the charm Parisians seem to lack of. Pointing out the coldness or rudeness of Parisians is the surest way for Parisians to display to the face of the world their difference and, implicitly, their superiority. When a Parisian criticizes Parisians, he unconsciously crowns himself superiorest among the superiors.

  Now, claiming that Parisians are cold, snobby, no fun, close-minded, or rude is not rocket science. The real problem when Parisians criticize Parisians is: then what? The “then what” question is usually not a question Parisians ask themselves. Parisians point at the problem and move on—satisfied with the amount of intelligence they poured on the world.

  But when one realizes that the people surrounding him are indeed cold, no fun, and close-minded, he needs to ask himself questions. Even a Parisian.

  Once the Parisian realizes that, indeed, Parisians might not be that superior in the end, one major difficulty lies before him. And that is to befriend provinciaux or étrangers. Parisians usually enjoy these people’s freshness and their different approach on life. But befriending someone implies a level of proximity most Parisians just can’t or refuse to create with provinciaux or étrangers. They are happy to have some in their extended network. They will even share good moments with them. But it will be hard for them to connect at a very personal level. Befriending a provinciaux or étranger for a Parisian is like a guy dating a girl with a big butt.

  It is hard to admit socially that this is actually what you prefer.

  USEFUL TIP: If you criticize Parisians in front of a Parisian, he will treat your argument with scorn. Provinciaux or étrangers just don’t get it. Only Parisians can criticize Parisians. Only Parisians get it.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Non, et puis les gens sont froids à Paris, c’est horrible. (“And I mean on top of it, people in Paris are so cold, it’s horrible.”)

  Les Petites Vestes

  Parisian men have a disloyal relationship to elegance. They cannot cope with it daily. Simply because Parisian men were once Parisian boys. And Parisian boys were meant to dress well. A day of ugly looks is a pleasure that Parisian men like to treat themselves to at least once a week. This is their weekly claim to freedom.

  The rest of the week, Parisian men are to maintain a certain level of elegance. Tremendous and shiny Italian-like elegance is not suitable: m’as-tu-vu. Nor is stiff and excessively proper English-like elegance: trop coincé. Parisian men like for their clothes to be simple, discreet, and elegant. M’as-tu-pas-vu somewhat. Their best ally in that daily quest for a nondisputable yet nonsuspectable elegance is la petite veste (“suit jacket”).

  Parisian men love their jackets. A jacket is to the Parisian man what the purse is to the Parisian woman: rather than an accessory, it is a real expression of the mood, social status, and personality of the person who wears it. Fabric, cut, and color depend on season, occasion, and company.

  Parisian men—and that is one of the rare characteristics they share with the rest of their gender—can’t be bothered with buying clothes regularly. They want reliable pieces of clothing they know will fit and match given social situations. La petite veste for that matter is unrivaled.

  The jacket is usually taken from a suit. But it can easily be worn with jeans or khakis. With chaussures de ville, or sneakers. La petite veste must be bien coupée. And, because le Parisien is quite the sexy man, always légèrement cintrée.

  The Parisian usually only finds out about la petite veste in the second half of his twenties. Before that is simply too soon. As it is, la petite veste is the most perfect sartorial transition into the older age. The Parisian’s way to start looking like his father while being so obviously cooler than him. “I’m not old, I’m successful and stylish.” Best not to remind him at this point that wanting to display success and style is rarely something children like to do.

  USEFUL TIP: Two colloquialisms: retourner sa veste means “to change sides” and se prendre une veste means “getting turned down.”

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Tu mets une p’tite veste, un jean, et puis voilà, tout simple! (“You wear a sportscoat, jeans, and voilà, simple!”)

  The Idea of Being a Bon Vivant

  The Parisian did not grow up on the fields. As a child, he never explored the world firsthand. He learned through books, school, and television. Experiencing most things by proxy. The logic that shaped him as a child rarely gets overthrown when he grows up.

  The Parisian is happy to let others experience life for him. He knows life enough through what he hears from others. He knows the flaws of the paths they follow; he knows the pains and troubles. And he doesn’t want any of that.

  Le bon vivant sits at the top in the hierarchy of figures the Parisian likes yet would never become. Le bon vivant likes to eat, drink, and laugh. With his brilliant knowledge of Ancient Greek philosophy, the Parisian will like to refer to the bon vivant as un épicurien.

  Yet he’s not. His asceticism is to deprive life from lean moments. His generosity is to value nothing more than this very second. The Parisian senses candor where he should see resolution. He perceives simplicity where wisdom truly lies. He sees excess when he should just sit down and have a bite.

  Parisians admire the ability some people possess to simply enjoy and have fun. Very few Parisians manage to find a way to that sense of letting go. They need to watch themselves. They do frequently wish it was not so, but it is: they are stuck with themselves.

  The sight of the bon vivant is a pleasant one for the Parisian. All at once, he sees joy and he sees food; he sees fun and he feels soothed. He also sees an overweight person and at that very second feels truly
wise for not living his life. The gray wisdom of the skinny. Parisians over forty years old at that point will usually think about the heart attack the bon vivant will inevitably have when he turns fifty. All this comforts the Parisian in his lifestyle. It is quite enjoyable.

  But the sight of the bon vivant is nothing compared to the thought of it. Brain is more powerful a pleasure instrument than poor eyes could ever be. The thought of a bon vivant is an infinitely comfortable one for the Parisian. The bon vivant is the last Mohican of a France that Parisians wish was not vanishing. A France of good food, full glasses, and jolly people. This France is dying and Parisians know it too well.

  Putting yourself on the line is not a Parisian thing to do. If there is a war to wage, the Parisian will fight it talking. Not protesting. Or resisting. And certainly not eating and drinking in what he reckons to be excess. Le bon vivant is not a resistant . But the Parisian wants to support him. He wants to be on what he senses to be the right side. That of the good guys. That of a better life.

  As he does, a few days later, the Parisian will undoubtedly start wondering if he has actually gained weight. This is the start of a whole new form of resistance.

  USEFUL TIP: Want to meet bon vivants? Try l’Auberge Pyrénées Cévennes in the 11th arrondissement.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: J’étais dans le sud ouest: ils sont bons vivants les mecs . . . foie gras, pinard. Putain, qu’est ce qu’ils picolent. C’est fou. (“I was in the southwest; those guys are real bon vivants . . . they eat foie gras, drink wine. Gosh, they drink so much though. It’s nuts.”)

  Barbecues

  Life in Paris makes barbecuing impossible.

  Yet all Parisians love barbecues. For un barbecue is first and foremost an event—a rare one for the Parisian. No invitation in the world sounds more appealing to the Parisian than one to un p’tit barbec. In the Parisian mythology, le p’tit barbec is good news all around: it means sunshine, outdoors, and a cute garden. Being invited to un barbecue is a fantastically appealing perspective to the Parisian. Such precious invitations are too rare.

  In a Parisian existence, opportunities for barbecues are seldom. The most common one requires a sunny weekend. Usually in early spring or early summer. The scene unfolds at a friend’s house in the suburbs or in the countryside, never farther than an hour away from Paris. At this type of barbecue, rosé will generally be the drink of predilection. Conversations about holiday plans and how beautiful the weather is will abound. The Parisian has the uncertain but resolute feeling that barbecued meat is healthy. These barbecues will be remembered for years. They can be considered a peek into Parisian happiness.

  The second most common opportunity for barbecues is less memorable, but usually just as pleasant. The scene now unfolds at a country house. The Parisian went shopping for what he reckons to be the freshest food in the universe. Incidentally, just a few hours ago—the Parisian has no doubt about it—the fish was still in the ocean, the steak was quietly grazing in the field next door, and the apples were falling off a beautiful tree in some nearby farmer’s backyard. On s’le fait au barbec?! The most just of all tributes to the freshest of foods.

  Parisian men love to s’occuper du barbec. In these very minutes where they bring a cautious urban eye to an ancestral gesture, they manage to reconnect with their masculine identity. They feel like, for a few minutes, lighting a fire and grilling steaks, they can act as real men, enjoy it, and be appreciated by others for it.

  Finally, barbecues allow Parisian men to be real men and not shameful about it. Realizing that, one may indeed regret that life in Paris does make barbecuing impossible.

  USEFUL TIP: Good meat in Paris can be found at Hugo Desnoyer’s boucherie in the 14th.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Samedi, on était invités à un p’tit barbec, hyper sympa, il a fait super beau. (“Saturday, we were invited to a little barbecue. It was really nice; it was beautiful out, too.”)

  Lunch Menus

  Dinner is the festive Parisian meal. Lunch for most Parisians is merely a utilitarian meal. One should restore in the midst of the workday and that moment is called lunch.

  As a student, the Parisian has no money. So lunch for him consists mostly of fast food and sandwiches. As he grows older and starts earning more money, his French genes start tickling him and—though he usually has little time for lunch—he intends to turn it into a satisfying moment. Living in France, all odds are that, no matter how old he is, he still is far from rich. So value for his money is something he will be looking for.

  A happy medium is therefore what the Parisian hopes for. Enough ambition of differentiation to clearly separate his taste buds and wallet from that of the plebes. But certainly not enough to even consider going à la carte on anything but the company’s card. On his dime, the Parisian goes for le menu du midi. A simplified declension of the evening menu offered for something between 10 and 20 euros (U.S.$15–$20). This menu is usually made up of entrée et plat or plat et dessert. The double-barreled temptation usually turns into a triple-barreled one: supplement for entrée, plat, et dessert is usually on offer—most likely, the Parisian reckons, to trouble his peace of mind.

  The drink question is an easy one. To the question Qu’est ce qu’on boit? that waiters like to ask, Parisians usually respond with a pitiful une carafe d’eau. Elusive moment of self-humiliation. At that second, the Parisian feels cheap for not ordering mineral water. And bad for not ordering any wine. He is turning his back on the essence of his country and he knows it. But utilitarianism is never far. Neither are the fearful ways of Parisians when it comes to wine. If one bold Parisian feels like wine, another one around the table will usually calm him down with a wise “Non, moi, vraiment, j’peux pas, j’ai du boulot cette après-midi.” The voice of reason rarely loses in Paris.

  At the end of the meal, the Parisian loves to pop his carnet de tickets restaurants. Monopoly money given by his employer to subsidize his lunch expenses. His daily ticket restaurant rarely covers the full amount of the lunch menu. Thus, at this stage, he washes off earlier self-inflicted humiliation by contemplating the ego-boosting decision of either pitching in a second ticket restaurant or pitching in with a few coins from his own pocket.

  Who said meals in Paris were not always delicious?

  USEFUL TIP: Best value lunch menu in Paris can be found at le Reminet in the 5th. Dinner there is also eminently enjoyable.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Alors on va prendre trois formules entrée-plat. Avec trois chèvres-chauds, deux saumons, et un onglet saignant. (“OK, we’re gonna get three menus. With three warm goat cheese, two salmons, and one hanger steak.”)

  Reading the Titles of the Books Displayed in a Home They’re Invited into for the First Time

  Parisians need to be reassured. They cannot accept into their lives people they have little knowledge about. They need to have access to certain crucial pieces of information to decide whether or not the person in front of them is one of quality. They know too well how misleading physical appearance and attire can be. Parisians need to know about achievements. They need a track record to decide whether or not they wish to engage.

  Yes, Parisians are that spontaneous.

  Propriety in some situations prevents them from accessing the information they need. That is when Parisians turn into full-on bloodhounds. If one lets a Parisian he does not know (or, more precisely, who doesn’t know him) into his home, he should be warned that the Parisian will analyze any visible element he can find. While most people will stick to interior design, the Parisian will engage in a discreet but unstoppable review of all the books showcased in the place. While other guests childishly enjoy themselves over a drink and pleasant conversation, the Parisian is on a mission. Walking at a disturbingly slow pace in front of bookcases. Occasionally grabbing one, flipping a few pages, then nodding intelligently while placing the book back on the shelf.

  The Parisian will thus grow tremendously informed about his host. He will know about his interests—which,
if of greater culture than his, will immediately be deemed as solely proclaimed ones. He will most likely find out about his political beliefs and tastes in entertainment. All this is much more precious than drinks and fun conversations.

  One thing that will disturb the Parisian is a home where books are plentiful, apparently read recently, and not placed there just as a declarative statement of cultural identity. The Parisian will sense his cultural inferiority and come back to the group ready, if need be, to make his host look like a stuck-up nerd.

  Reading the titles of the books never makes Parisians question their own absence or mere lack of reading. The Parisian absorbs all these books and authors as if he knows them inside and out. It is a very comforting thought. Unlike that of the other guests in the room, the company of great minds is one Parisians can appreciate at once. Great minds have the good taste of having an immediately identifiable track record.

  Finally, the Parisian has found someone as polite as him. He can go ahead and mingle now.

  USEFUL TIP: Prepare.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Attends, sérieux, c’est bon quoi. Le mec c’est Marc Lévy, Paolo Coelho et compagnie, ça va quoi. (“I mean, seriously. The guy is into Marc Lévy, Paolo Coelho, and stuff. Puh-lease.”)

  Thailand

  In the summertime, there are more Parisians in Thailand than in Paris. Thailand has grown to become Parisians’ destination of choice. Since they spend most of their time pondering what is to them the most decisive question of all—where their next holiday destination will be—Parisians look for a destination that has it all.