THE PARIS WAITER.
The Garçon--The Development of the Type--The Garçon's Daily Routine--His
Ambitions and Reverses.
[Illustration: SELLING GOATS.]
The waiter of Paris, whose manners are of velvet, whose flittings are
bird-like, and whose smile is eternal, is another pronounced type of
character. The _garçon_ may be said to have originated at a Paris
refreshment-room established in or before the time of Scarron (who
celebrates it in verse), by a certain Señor Lopes in association with
a certain Señor Rodrigues. This restaurant, in the Portuguese style,
was celebrated for a beverage then much in vogue, known as "citrate,"
and composed of lemon-juice, cedrat, and sugar in fresh or iced water.
It was dispensed to the frequenters of the place by extremely polite
servants, who were the first in France to exercise the suave and
delicate functions of the waiter. Gradually other restaurants were
opened in the capital for the sale, first of lemonade and orgeat, and
subsequently of coffee, tea, chocolate, and wines. The waiter, as
these houses of refreshment improved and developed, became more and
more polished and indispensable, so that to-day, according to a French
writer, "He is a personage. He wears shirts of the finest Holland,
glazed shoes, white stockings, and a tie which would move the envy of a
sub-prefect. But for his vest, which indemnifies itself for not being
quite a vest by the fineness of its tissue, he would be mistaken for an
ambassador or a tenor. His hair, cut in the latest fashion, exhales
sweet odours, and his lips express a perpetual smile of complaisance.
The lady at the counter, it should be added, shows him delicate
attentions."
The true Paris waiter, like the true poet, is born, not made. He has
hereditary waiter's blood coursing through his veins. His father was
a garçon before him, and from childhood he has been instructed in the
family art, learning celerity and grace of movement, with that patience,
politeness, and amiability by which he is distinguished. There are
exceptions to this rule, all the same; and good waiters have sometimes
been made out of men who have failed in the higher walks of life; of
bankrupt merchants or ruined gentlemen. A spendthrift who, having run
through his fortune, prefers to wait rather than work is already in some
degree qualified for the post of garçon. His experience will constitute
him an authoritative arbiter in disputes over a game of billiards, or a
pretty girl, or dominoes, or cards; he knows how to please men who love
to dine or sup as sumptuously as he once did, and the winebibbers excite
within him no repulsion, but on the contrary strike a chord of sympathy
in his soul.
Whatever his antecedents may be, the Paris waiter invariably becomes
fashioned after a certain recognised type. This type is well described
by a French writer in the following words: "Vigour of constitution and
honesty of soul are two qualities without which the café garçon would
not exist. The master's eye cannot always be hovering over the bottles,
the decanters, the cups, and the coffee-pots of the laboratory. Nothing
is easier than to divert, in the midst of the gigantic consumption
which distinguishes certain establishments, an occasional drop from
the ocean of refreshments and liqueurs; a fraction of that total which
the proprietor counts every evening, to the great annoyance of the
late-staying customer exchanging his last ten-sou piece at midnight
for a final _petit verre_. The garçon is therefore, of necessity, an
honest man. From the rising of the sun to the extinction of the gas
he is handling the money of others; he is a confidential servant, a
cashier on a small scale. As to vigour of constitution, you will soon
see how indispensable that is to the garçon. Day dawns, and late as
he went to bed the night before, he has to rise betimes. At that hour
there is hardly anyone awake in Paris but fruiterers, scavengers, and
water-carriers; nevertheless he, the man of eloquence, who passes
his time amongst epicures and who forms an indisputable part of the
fashionable world, must tear himself from the luxury of repose.
Every day the luxury of life surrounds him with its seductions, its
perfumes, and its joys, and yet he is condemned to live the hard life
of an artizan. His master wishes him to have at once the complaisant
elegance of a spaniel and the vigilance of a fox. Well, he wakes up, and
stretches his arms; striking, perhaps, with his extended fingers the
table-legs between which he has thrown his mattress the night before.
For you must quite understand that he is obliged to take his food and
to sleep within that space which is the scene of his duties; like the
soldier in action, he sleeps on the field of battle. When, thus early,
he rises, he is breathing a heavy air, impregnated with the too-familiar
emanations from gas, not to mention the odours (hermetically closed
in by the café shutters) of that punch, wine, and haricot mutton
which the proprietor has shared at midnight with his companions, at
table No. 1, the table, that is to say, nearest the counter. The only
glimpse of light which cheers the garçon as he opens his eyes proceeds
from the inextinguishable lamp which burns in the laboratory with
the obstinacy of the vestal fire. As to those matutinal sounds which
herald the approach of day, the garçon is quite free to regard as such
the mewing of the cat, or the shrill whistlings of Madame's canaries,
which are anticipating a near visit from the chickweed merchant. But
suddenly the tread of the master, who, in a room overhead, is searching
for his braces and his cravat, shakes the ceiling. In an instant the
mattresses of all the waiters are snatched up and bundled behind an old
partition, side by side with spoilt billiard cues, watering cans, broken
chess-boards, and the antique counter which the proprietor purchased
with the original stock. The shutters are taken down, the milkmaid
arrives, the principal comes downstairs with a bag of money under his
arm, Madame thinks about her toilette, butter pats are distributed on
the plates, the stove-tender lights the fire, and all the bees in this
hive are in motion. The hour of work has struck."
After this first tug at his collar, it is a relief to find that the
garçon enjoys a brief period of repose, and, whilst awaiting custom,
tears the wrappers off the newspapers and studies the European
situation. In the morning he is occupied entirely with dispensing
café-au-lait. This first service is productive of very few "tips," as
the customers who breakfast at the cafés are usually employées, or old
bachelors, or provincial visitors lodging in the small hotels of the
neighbourhood; people more or less pledged to a discreet economy. From
noon, however, till two o'clock black coffee and alcoholic liqueur
absorb the waiter's energies. It is between those hours that gay
consumers, with hearts already warmed by a visit to the neighbouring
restaurant, arrive in troops and pay without counting their change.
This, however, is not a wise proceeding if we are to be guided by a
certain M. Vidocq, who, in his "Arch Thief (_Paravoleur_); or, The
Art of conducting oneself prudently in all countries and especially
at Paris," a book at once curious and rare, does not, like a
beforementioned writer, rely on the universal integrity of the garçon,
and whose advice to his readers is as follows:--"At the café you must
not, from a sense of false shame or from misplaced confidence, put
in your pocket without counting it the change which the garçon gives
you when the piece of money you have tendered in payment exceeds the
charge you have incurred. This is particularly to be avoided in the
cafés-jardins, where the crowd presses on all sides, and where twenty
panting waiters seem hardly sufficient to serve the customers. You
have come with some friends, and have taken ices, punch, liqueurs,
etc. When you are about to depart you tell the waiter that you wish to
settle. You call in vain for him five or six times, getting no reply
but--'Coming, sir; coming.' At length he arrives, scared, bewildered,
and staring right and left as though anxious to despatch you and rush
off to someone else. You tell him to reckon what you owe. He gabbles
certain words about ices, punch, liqueurs, which you cannot understand,
and then distinctly mentions a certain sum-total. If you pay on the
spot, without any explanation, you are pretty sure to have been charged
fifteen or twenty sous too much. If you have calculated your debt
beforehand, with the aid of the tariffs posted up at these places, you
will easily perceive, before parting with your money, what errors have
been committed. If, however, you have failed to take this precaution, do
not be imposed upon by the distracted air of the garçon, but make him
enumerate each separate item of your account, and it will be a wonder
indeed if you do not gain by this recapitulation." Yet another ingenious
device on the part of the garçon is made by M. Vidocq a subject of
admonition to his readers. "When a party of friends," he writes, "have
run up rather a heavy bill, it often happens that the gentleman who is
doing the honours finds amongst the change he receives a piece of ten
or twenty sous from which the image and superscription have been almost
entirely effaced; and he ultimately throws it to the waiter, saying that
it is for him. This coin has not been introduced without intention. It
has already been frequently presented to customers and frequently thrown
back to the waiter. You would give the garçon two or three sous if you
received good money, and you give him ten or twenty because he tenders a
piece of money which you are afraid you cannot pass."
Although everywhere very much on the same pattern, the Paris garçon
varies somewhat in his manners, customs, and general bearing according
to the establishment in which he exercises his functions. There are
cafés on the Boulevard des Italiens where he deviates somewhat from
his traditional amiability, and, when a customer complains of the
café-au-lait with which he has been served, raises his eyes to the
ceiling, sighs, places a fresh cup on the table, and filling it from the
self-same coffee-pot, exclaims, "I know you will like that, sir." The
waiter of the Boulevard Saint-Martin is a man of letters, particularly
conversant with dramatic literature. He picks up his education from the
eminent actors and dramatists who frequent the establishment, and knows
everything that is going on behind the scenes. At one time the garçon
of the Café Desmares was an eminent authority on military matters. He
knew all the superior officers of the Royal Guard, and everything that
was whispered in the barracks. In course of time--after 1830 that is to
say--he lost his martial tint, and became highly aristocratic; speaking
in measured tones and looking exceedingly bored. Now, however, like the
café itself, he is no more. The body-guards were accustomed under the
Restoration to assemble at the Café Valois; whilst the Bonapartists had
their headquarters at the Café Lemblin. Challenges were sent from one
café to the other, swords were drawn and duels were fought by the dim
light of some street lamp. The weapons, it is said, were confided to
the waiters of the belligerent cafés, together with the pipes of the
frequenters. The intending duellist called for them as he would have
called for a newspaper, and the waiter sometimes replied:--"They are all
in use, sir."
The garçon aspires to wealth and greatness. Sometimes, in his vaulting
ambition, he o'erleaps himself. Says a French student of his manners and
customs: "He takes a wife and a new house, puts frills on his shirt,
and inscribes his name in the National Guard. Become, in his turn, a
master, he puts a hundred thousand francs' worth of gilding, pictures,
and mirrors (obtained on credit) into the establishment which he opens
with unusual éclat. The public rush to his doors, and all goes well
until some neighbouring café, more sumptuous still, draws the crowd away
again. Then the time has arrived for him to make up his balance-sheet
and pay two and a half per cent. to his creditors. What becomes of him
after that? If he has protected his wife's dowry he takes refuge in his
native country, between two cabbage beds with a pond for his ducks.
One day the malady of dethroned kings seizes him, and he dies of ennui
in the midst of an inconsolable family. Heaven take pity on his soul!
Many café waiters die without having fulfilled their dream of having an
establishment of their own. The life of fatigue which they lead kills
them, as a rule, towards their thirtieth year. It is thus that we have
seen the greatest of them all vanish from our midst--that waiter of the
Café de la Rotonde, whose '_baoum!_' uttered in a far-resounding voice,
has found so many imitators. We see him still, coffee-pot in hand,
saying in a voice profound, 'Pas de Crême?' Alas, alas, he is dead. He
died of consumption, and when he was about to expire the nurse still
offered him a mixture of cod-liver oil and milk, which his doctor had
prescribed. He exclaimed with his last gasp, 'Pas de Crême?'"