I’ve been to France thirty, forty, maybe fifty times over the last forty years.  S. and I even rented a house in the south of France one summer long ago.  I’ve studied the language off and on ever since I made a weak C in French 101 my freshman year in college.  I’ve bought French companies, and I’ve sold French companies.  I’ve had 100’s, if not 1000’s, of French employees over the years.  I know my French history pretty well and collected more than a few pieces of French art.  Hell, I even gave a speech in French at the opening of one our our facilities in the environs of Paris.  I’ve admired French wine, ogled French women, stuffed myself with French food, and generally admired things French.  I’m about as close as one could get to being a francophile without actually being one.  But there are some things that I’ll never understand about the French.  Lemme give you a couple of examples.

Bathrooms, WC’s, toilettes….whatever you want to call them.  What’s the deal with them.  First of all the French have this idea that men and women should do their business pretty much cheek to jowl.  Second, the gender proximity wouldn’t be so bad except that the average French biffy occupies about 1.5 square meters (that’s about fifteen square feet for all of you non-euros).  And that wouldn’t be so bad except that there’s always at least three people in the space….you, the lady waiting for the stall to be free, and the large French matron collecting the small fee for…well, I don’t know what she’s collecting it for.  Third, the johns are always upstairs.  I have a little problem climbing any stairs, and the French always use tiny circular stairways.   The good news is that there’s not enough room to fall.  Most of their toilettes aren’t actually dirty, not Chinese toilet dirty, but they’re not exactly clean either, so I always turn on the faucet with my elbow and dry my hands on my pants.  For all their attention on architecture, they seem to have pretty much ignored this most necessary of facilities.  I’ll bet they would get giddy in a standard Seven Eleven bathroom.  They probably would want to sleep in there.

Taxis.  This one’s a little difficult to get overly wrought up about because of the language thing.  You know….we’ve all had the time when we explained slowly and loudly in our best imitation of an American speaking French.  Prennez-moi aux Tour Eiffel and you wind up at the Gare du Nord.  I’m not talking about that.  I’m talking about size, fare calculation, and well, I guess I’m also talking about the language thing.  Your average Parisian taxi is no more than six feet long and five feet wide. You can get an idea from the photo above.  It’s works ok if there are only two of you trying to go somewhere and both are under five feet four and weigh less than 120 pounds.  After that it becomes difficult nigh on to impossible.  To make it worse, every driver uses the front passenger seat for his personal office file/luggage rack/dust bin/dinning space.  In the old days, no taxi in Paris would allow more than three passengers.  I don’t know if it was a rule or they just wouldn’t do it.  Now after hailing a taxi, one must announce that there will be four passengers.  The driver may give a snort and a Gallic shrug and drive off, or maybe he will give a Gallic shrug and begin clearing the front passenger seat.  Depending on the amount of debris, he may have to get out and store some items in the boot.  You can imagine that this does not put him in a positive frame of mind.  With my knees under my chin I might say, “je voudrais aller a la hotel Westin, sil vous plait”.  He most likely will say, “eh?”  I repeat it several times louder and slower until at last he says, “ah, voila, la hotel West-een.”  Upon arrival at the destination begins the kabuki theatre of the fare calculation. “Comment ca coute?”, I say.  He says something completely unintelligible in return.  I give him a twenty euro note and hope for something back.

Eating.  This is really a big deal in France.  But what’s the deal with all the tiny tables outside.  The weather matters not one whit.  The French will be reading their Figaro, eating a funky cheese sandwich, and washing it down with a double espresso.  We, of course, will be trying to imitate the French.  I’ve not yet quite figured out the difference between a bistro and brasserie…well, that’s not quite true.  I know that prices in a bistro are high and in a brasserie they are higher.    When I say higher, I mean nose bleed high.  I’m almost inured to the eight dollar cokes, and I don’t now blanch at nine dollar scoop of ice cream, but I’m drawing the line at at twenty six dollar gin and tonic, particularly when they charge you another seven dollars for the tonic.  It’s absolutely un-American.  Ok, enough with the prices.  They’re over the top, but what are you going to do.

Let’s talk about the food.  There’s a lot to talk about here, and I’m not going to bore you with a lot of details, but it’s important for you to know that the French eat everything.  By everything, I mean every part of every animal.  When I say every, I mean every.  Did you know that there’s a restaurant law that requires every French restaurant to have snails on the menu.  Now, I like snails (escargot) and even ordered them once on this trip, but on every menu?  The only other explanation I can think of is that there is a plague of snails somewhere in France, and they’re trying to get rid of them by foisting them off on tourists who think that you’re supposed to eat them when in France.

S.and I celebrated our 47th wedding anniversary on our last day in Paris, and I thought to celebrate by deviating from our grandkid imposed diet of steak frites and pizza by going to an upmarket brasserie for a “coup de champagne” and a good, traditional French meal.  I did my research and decided to avoid the old standards like Brasserie Lipp and Hippopotamus.  I wanted authentic.  I ignored the advice of the concierge (who hadn’t done very good so far) and relied on the modern traveler’s new friend TripAdvisor.com.  The problem with internet user reviews is that even if it rates overall a 4.5 out of 5.0 there will always be one or two outliers that will go something like this.  “My frogleg starter needed seasoning, and the duck confit was slightly overdone, but when the owner’s dog crapped under our table…..”, or “the food was ok, but these French waiters are arrogant a**holes.  I  asked for a chicken fried steak and a root beer, and they completely ignored me.”  Le Vaudville was a well regarded brasserie/bistro/restaurant within walking distance of our hotel with generally good reviews which suggested we would find traditional fare and a mix of local and tourist clients.  Things started well with the celebratory champagne.  It was a strong plus that our waiter spoke (and presumably understood) English very well.  We got the steak frites for the grandkids thing out of the way, and I asked for their specialities.  He said, “monsieur, we are well known for our Cow’s Head”.  I thought….your cow’s head what.  Cow’s Head, cow’s head…surely not.  I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I was hoping that S. had not heard him at all.  I suggested the foie gras and moules to S. and I ordered, you guessed it, duck confit and cabbage.  So, I had picked a restaurant to celebrate our 47th anniversary only to find that their speciality was Cow’s Head.  Only in France.  Remember they eat more goose liver than the whole rest of the world.

Actually it wasn’t that bad.

Just kidding, of course.

You gotta love the French.