A Waiter in Paris: Adventures in the Dark Heart of the City

by Edward Chisholm

camera with its shutter open’, as Christopher Isherwood wrote of his time in Berlin.

In Paris life costs less than in London; it’s easier to be poor. For certain staples the prices are essentially fixed: a traditional baguette, €1.20; a démi bière, €1.50; a café au bar, €1.00. Cigarettes are cheaper, wine too, even the Métro is inexpensive (€1.70 for a single compared to London’s £5.00).

Du fric, des sous, du pognon, du blé, du pèze, du cash, de l’argent, de la monnaie, de la thune, des billets, de la caillasse, des ronds, du flouze, de la maille…

As a rule, the very rich, powerful, famous and beautiful are not the greatest tippers; they believe something is owed to them and are used to getting things for free.

‘They think that because something looks expensive, it is. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. This does not interest me. What’s important is how you wear something. Any man can wear expensive shoes. The hard part’s wearing them like you’re meant to be wearing them.’

But life is cruel, and though French society may have outwardly destroyed the class system when they toppled the monarchy, it left in place a rigid caste system. To succeed in France, you need to have grown up in the right areas (often prestigious Parisian neighbourhoods) and to have attended the right schools and universities.

‘You can tell a lot about someone by the way they talk to a waiter,’

After a night of carrying plates of French cuisine I find myself dreaming of Marmite on buttered bread and pickled onion Monster Munch.

The sommelier has very little time for New World wines. ‘It’s like literature,’ he says. ‘You’ll never read everything; just concentrate on appreciating the classics.’

He’s got rich selling the illusion of fine food, simply by serving below-average food in stylish surroundings.

Besides, when you’re in Paris you couldn’t care less about anywhere else. Your world shrinks; it’s the centre of the universe. There is nowhere else.

I’ve spent the last years casting around for a story to write, and it turns out it is staring me in the face: the waiters – there is something heroic about them, working against such injustice, day in and day out.

Salvatore: You know why, in Italia, we drink Amari after dinner? Me: Digestion? Salvatore: No. Because no matter how sweet the meal was, the bitterness of the drink, it reminds us that we must return to our lives… until the next meal, that is.