Le President

One way of exploring a foreign country is to go to as many places as possible; different restaurants, café’s, that type of place. Get a general picture of the town, a broader experience. Learn nothing.

Another way to do it is to go to the same place everyday, the same routine. No variation. This way you build familiarity, you feel like a regular - a local. Familiar with one small thing, rather than knowing nothing about many. It’s intimate. Better.

For me, this was Le President, a Brasserie on the corner of Avenue Franklin D Roosevelt and Rue du Colisee, not far from the Aviation club de France on the Champs Elysees, but far enough not to run into any poker players who I have no interest in talking to outside of the card room.

Green leather seats, tables tucked in so legs can’t be, hanging lights, a long bar and a TV mounted high up on the wall, just too far for any reasonable eyes to see.

Monday
Distaste from the waiter at an Englander eating in his place of work. Ask for a drink, some muttering. Then ask for the menu – my fault, I should have asked at the same time I asked for a drink. A coffee? Nope, no coffee. Fair enough. Orangina. Try and get the bastard on my side by drinking his nation’s favourite children’s drink. Order the salad and the bill. Leave with an unanswered ‘bonsoir’.

Tuesday
‘Hello’. This time a hello. A hint of recognition. This guy is back for more, even though we tried to put him off. Sit in the same place, look tired. Write a bit. After all, there’s always time for pretension. ‘Are you eating?’ excellent – they get the idea now. Choose another salad, a drink, the bill; get out with a ‘bonsoir’.

Wednesday
This is interesting. Today I get asked how I am. Good thanks. Change table, go for variety, but still pick the salad, not enough trust yet to veer off course. Watch the football. What the hell, this time let’s go for desert, payback for the warmer welcome? Chocolate mousse. Takes nearly an hour start to finish. But I got fresher bread today. They’ve assumed I’m happy to stay. Also, a quick chat with the locals about poker. They ask if Elky is playing. Or at least I think they ask that. Could have been anything.

Thursday
A warm welcome, how are you and a quick chat about the football. Not on the TV tonight, it’s a satellite TV game. Too bad I say, but not serious. Salad again, and crème caramel. ‘How about a coffee?’ thanks, but no time.

Friday
The last night. I said this was the case and was ordering steak. Good choice. Then, the apple tart to finish with and coffee of course. Well, ‘nice to work in Paris for a week’. I agree. I liked the place and would be back ‘the next time you’re in Paris.’ Of course.

That’s what I suggest next time you go anywhere abroad, where the locals don’t speak your language but you speak a little of theirs. Get past the initial hostility and reap the rewards of grudging acceptance.

On the last night an English couple came in and were given the ‘day one’ treatment. It’s probably what causes part of the hatred between French and English. I of course put my allegiance in with the waiter. Smugness is good. It may be true that locals appreciate tourists attempting some of their language, but this excludes absolute beginners .The rule only take effect once you can hold a conversation. Anything less is treated with contempt and flashy superiority. Don’t even start to think otherwise. Until then don’t say a word and stick to McDonalds. They’ll be happy to have you.