By the time I reached Place de la Concorde, I was tired and hungry. No, I was exhausted and famished! I had walked from my hotel in the 11th arrondissement and finally reached the Concorde several hours later. The morning was well over, and it was past time for lunch. Fortunately, steps away from the square and the Luxor Obelisk is Café Madeleine, quintessential Parisian Café.
On the corner of Place de la Madeleine and Rue Tronchet, Café Madeleine's bright red awning cast a welcome shadow over the tables set lining the street. A tall, friendly waiter addressed me in French, and when I paused, he knowingly switched to English: "Americain?"
It was more of a statement than a question. "Oui," I said. "My French is terrible." He laughed and then replied in a Parisian-soaked accent, "C'est la vie. Anglaise it will be with you and me." Now, I laughed. And I took a seat at a table along the Rue.
His shirt was crisp white, a black bowtie perfectly knotted at the center of his collar. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms to the mid-October sun peeking in and out of purple clouds. A tapered, black vest held tools of his trade in several small pockets: a pen, notepad, and a bottle opener.
He handed me the menu and asked what I would like to drink. We discussed the wines, and I settled on a Bordeaux. Moments later, he returned with the wine and a small bowl of nuts with which to break my fast. Out of vest pocket came a napkin and silverware.
He then left me to sip, crunch, and leisurely contemplate the menu.
As I waited to order, I considered the l'Egise Saint-Marie Madeleine directly in front of me across the street. This Roman Catholic house of worship began as a monument to Napoleon's army. On a site where several previous orders stood, only the stone columns have been repurposed. The memorial, however, was never finished and was eventually completed as a church once again.
My friendly waiter returned, and we discussed my options. Settling on roasted chicken with rice, I was once again left to enjoy my wine, bask in the alternating sun breaks, and watch the passersby.
Of all the things to see and do in Paris, I'll admit that sitting out at the Café's and observing their world ranks at the top of my list. I watch the other patrons of Café Madeleine with interest. While many are dining, just as many are quietly reading a book over a single cup of coffee. In Paris, waiters are salaried and are not reliant on tips for their living wage. The net result is no pressure to order much of anything, and you can stay as long as you like.
My waiter returned with my lunch ten minutes later. After setting the dish down before me, he wiped his palms against his crisp, white linen apron, which was wrapped around his waist. It was still spotless.
Much is said about French service, and a lot of it is not very complementary. But I have say, that my waiter at Café Madeleine was nothing but gracious and accommodating. From obliging my language barrier, to helpfully suggesting what I might like to eat, he was patient, friendly, and good-humored.
Although the Parisian Cafés don't look like much of a restaurant from the street, many serve up a pretty decent fare. The roasted chicken was smothered in a rich, hearty sauce and served with a side of lightly seasoned rice. And a small bowl of crusty bread comes without saying a word in any French establishment.
After enjoying my meal, of course, I ordered a coffee. Too stuffed to dare dessert, I sat and lingered over my 'le café crème,' as the Parisians call it. There were many people around me, but no one seemed in a hurry, least of all, me.
A bit surprisingly, the waiter brought me the bill shortly after dropping off the coffee. He was ending his shift, he explained, and was required to cash out. Then, with an encouraging smile and a hand placed knowingly on my shoulder, he said, "But we close at 1 AM. Take your time, my friend. There is no hurry."
And that, indeed, is the truth about Parisian Cafés. There is absolutely no hurry, at all.
And then, there was dessert, after all! Accompanying my rich, creamy coffee, was a small bisquit resting on the saucer. Not too sweet, it was the perfect, right-sized finish to a tasty meal out here in the 8th Arrondissement.
Before I stand to leave, I somewhat self-consciously grab the paper coaster I had purposefully avoided using. Decorated with the red and black emblem of the Café, I carefully place it in my sweatshirt pocket. I'm taking the coaster as a souvenir, but the truth is, I don't need one.
When I return home, my time at the Café Madeleine, quintessential Parisian Café, will be easy to recall. These moments, living as the French do, end up as absolute highlights of my visit to Paris. And ones that I seek to relive with each return.
Cheers!