Rudeness Defined

Since I’ve been coming to and living part or full-time in France, I’ve been hearing how “rude” the French are. (In fact, on another website we have a tradition, almost akin to the Oxbridge debating rule that he who first mentions “Hitler” loses; here, he (or she) who starts railing on about French waiters/staff being rude, immediately gets corrected.  But you know stereotypes have an origin in something.  So let me try to decline the noun.  When I first set foot on French soil, over 50 years ago and some 400 years since my ancestor left France with William "the Bastard," later yclept William "the Conqueror,” not unlike Marco Pantini, the late, great bike-rider known as “Il Elefantino” for his big ears, who later became “Il Pirato” when he himself boxed a few lobes, I was confronted with enormous cultural differences.  I’d left the US with firm stereotypes about what I’d left and be stepping into.    Friendliness, openness, willingness to understand foreigner’s mangling the language, gusto about food and wine and hugging, kissing and crying.  No – I’m not talking about the behavior of Americans but the French.  Boy did I get an awakening.  So where does this impression come from?  First, most Americans’ first meal is in a brasserie – I know they think it was a bistro – but that’s for another essay.  Here one is straight off the plane or (in my case) the boat or the Chunnel train and slightly disoriented and these black aproned/white males dash about taking orders, delivering food and splashing wine like dervishes – if you’re a bit jet-lagged it looks like a cruel play on a French farce.  Are they efficient? – Yes!, Disorganized/disrespectful? – No!, Rude?, No way.  Second, our fanciful compatriots get the menu – what the hell is all this stuff? – pied de porc, tete de veau, pain perdu?  Oh well, there’s a salad with salmon and steak with frites and gosh, there are the sorbets – OK.  Rude?  Sorry. No.  Third, said American(s) then order coffee and get espresso and sputter a bit.  If we’d wanted Starbucks we would’a gone there (Truth in satire – there are some 50 now in Paris, one on the Avenue de l’Opera).  Rude?  Come on.  Fourth, our imaginary couple go outside the brasserie and assume that it’s 9th Avenue, and futilely try to hail a cab – no way (being a nice man, despite my curmudgeonly reputation, I usually walk up and sometimes affecting the accent of Maurice Chevalier, or Charles Boyer, (if I’m feeling especially friendly), ask if I may help them find the cab rank stand).  And – as they are leaving me, they usually say to each other, something like, “See, the French aren’t so bad after all.”  Rude? – no; different rules? Most definitely.  Fifth, said folk address the chauffeur in English (hey, we rule the world, no, doesn’t everyone learn English, why should we spend time on dying cultures?) and say something like “Take us to the hotel on the Left Bank that sounds something like ‘the Bucky’” and then we have a moment of great tension, when the cabbie, who truly wants to help, shrugs and says “Comment” which our couple thinks is a slur (did he say “come on” or “common?”)  Rude ?  Get a life.  Sixth, our friends, after a too-long nap, having bought no guidebooks or done any research on the web, go down to the concierge and expect (1) he/she will find 5 3-star restaurants costing 100 € a couple for dinner that will have no Americans, (2) secure tickets to the “Crazy Horse” that night and (3) recommend what they should do tomorrow – but it cannot be too far away.  He/she faces this daily but it’s not easy dealing with the seriously entitled.  Rude?  I’ll let you decide.  Finally, our couple, tuckered out after running through the Louvre in two hours to see the Venus de Milo, Giaconde, Raft of the Medusa, Winged Victory, etc., Egyptian/Greek/French/Northern European collections are about to collapse when they see a sign saying “Metro” and enter – only to find adolescents listening to their iPods looking steadily out the window, hogging all the seats.  Rude?  I’m afraid so.  But my friends, have you traveled on the Madison Ave buses recently? – it’s a global adolescent disease.  So, this is supposed to be an essay on French Food (therefore my rubric French Food Follies), ergo – where’s the beef?  OK.  These thoughts were prompted during the October and November strikes, especially on crowded trains after a horrible meal at J’Go Saint-Germain.*  * last meal November 18, paid in full.  My favorites during the strike I’ve already given you.    ©2007 John A. Talbott