Adventures With Waiters in Montreal
Note: most names have been replaced with Francois(e) to protect the innocent.
I studied French in middle school and high school, but have only used it outside of class on a few occasions. This weekend we drove up to Montreal and I whipped it out to everyone’s confusion, not the least my own. They say that when Columbus’ ships appeared on the horizon, the natives couldn’t see them because the sight was so far outside their visual lexicon. This is exactly the kind of poetic bullshit I wish I’d made up. To honor the legend, this weekend the natives of Montreal and foreign devils from New Jersey collaborated on several farces.
The first was when we drove to a well-known bagel shop for breakfast. We parked our car two blocks away on the street but weren’t sure if we’d parked it legally. We got out and Yuanyuan waved over the first passer-by. His name was Francois.
Francois: English not good. You speak French?
Yuanyuan, pointing at me: very well.
Me: bonjour. (Hi.)
Francois: bonjour. Qu’est-ce que vous voulez? (Hi. What do you want?)
Me: manger. (to eat.)
Francois: vous cherchez un restaurant? (you’re looking for a restaurant?)
Me, feeling pretty happy with how things are going: non, nous savons ou nous allons. (no, we know where we’re going.)
Francois: donc…qu’est-ce que vous voulez? (then…what do you want?)
Me, pointing to the car: uh…park.
Francois: garer votre voiture? (park your car?)
Me, having learned a new word: oui, garer! Ici! (yes, to park! Here!)
Francois: oui, c’est possible. (yes, you can.)
Me: merci Francois. Je t’aime. (Thank you Francois. I love you.)
As Francois headed off, I recounted our conversation to Yuanyuan and it came to me how ridiculous the exchange had been. I’d completely derailed it with my idiotically straightforward answer to his sensible question. “What do you want?” “To eat.” I might as well have placed my order right there: “I’ll have a blueberry bagel with apple cinnamon cream cheese (this is Willy Wonka’s bagel shop apparently). The lady will have a sesame bagel with cream cheese and lox. And one latte please, American-size.”
The second misunderstanding happened when we went to sample the most popular local fast food: poutine. If you’re not familiar with it, it’s french fries with various toppings, but pronounced with awe and devotion. The vanilla version is fries, gravy and cheese curds, but you can also top it with different types of meat, sour cream, other dairy concoctions, pickles, jalapenos, chocolate…I’ll stop here because you need twin degrees in set theory and food science to describe the things that can go on it. The guy at the table next to ours was trying to do just that. Not having taken the prerequisite coursework, I got stuck at the initial implausible premise that the geometry of the food and of his body were compatible volume-wise. I should never have doubted him. He proved both the main theorem and a solid burger lemma.
A brief history of poutine: it was invented by Francois, a cousin of the Francois who invented sprinkles for ice cream. Someone more circumspect might have worried that health-conscious people would be wary enough of eating a blob of fat and sugar without adding little crayon shavings to it, but not these guys. They leaned right in. Ice cream toppings and poutine are the punk rock of food. They don’t tiptoe around cardiovascular disease. They chase it towards a glorious murder-suicide.
We went to a popular poutine joint, as evidenced by the line outside its entrance, but were seated quickly. A smiling charming chubby waitress came to our table to take our order. Her name was Francoise.
Me: we’ll have the Classic Poutine and a Traditional Coleslaw.
Francoise: on top?
Me: no, on the side.
Francoise: one Classic Poutine and one with Traditional Coleslaw?
Me: no, one Classic Poutine and one Traditional Coleslaw.
Francoise: ah, got it! How unusual. And to drink?
Me: Coke Zero. Uh, in a can. Unopened.
The poutine was better than I expected. I was hesitant about dressing it with Coke Zero but Francoise insisted and I have no regrets.
There was one more memorable incident with waiters, though this time I was in the audience. We went to a smoked meat restaurant called Francois’. It’s pretty well known. Apparently they even made a musical about their restaurant, if you can trust the propaganda plastered on the walls there.
A couple sat one table down from ours, Francois and Francoise, and our waiter attended to them first. His name was Timmy. I thought it might have been Francois at first, but a bit later a big man sitting next to us demanded to see him and another waiter said that Timmy would be right back.
“Tell Jimmy I need some hot water,” said the big guy. This made me a little nervous. Did I call him Timmy or Jimmy? Would the waiter get offended at Jimmy? Would the big guy take it personally if I went with Timmy? I saw what he’d done to that steak and the steak had been impeccably polite. Now it was a stain on his plate. Maybe I should go with Francois and make it racist on a less personal level?
Back to Francois and Francoise.
Timmy: Bonjour.
[Francois begins to order for himself and his girlfriend]
Timmy: No. Stop. Try again. Bonjour. Hi. We’re both human beings.
Wow. You should have seen the look on Francois’ face after that bitch slap. I should have seen the look on his face. Unfortunately he was facing away from me, and after that scolding, faced his plate and the corner in shame for the rest of the meal. All I saw was the insta-flushed face of his girlfriend, who looked mortified. It looked permanent. I would have felt bad for them but I was too busy being paranoid about my own upcoming interaction. I kissed our waiter’s ass vigorously for the next fifteen minutes while the big guy called him Jimmy left and right with impunity. All in all, a confusing meal.
After wolfing down our smoked meat sandwiches, which were quite good and very generous on the meat, we hastily made our exit before we could get into trouble. We almost made it out without incident, but as we paid, our cashier got scolded rather sharply for (alleged) incompetence. What was going on? Was it just us? Was it be-a-dick theme night and had we missed the memo? Were Canadians trying to reverse their reputations as nice North Americans all in one night? Were those people all stooges from Improv Everywhere, giving us a surreal experience? We never found out and I pray we never will.
