Stuff Parisians Like

by Olivier Magny

  That destination, to them, is called Thailand. When asked why, they will systematically answer with an irrefutable: “Attends, c’est hyper beau, y a des temples, de la plage, un peu de culture, la bouffe est bonne et ca ca coûte rien: tu peux te mettre des hotels incroyables.” (“Listen, it’s gorgeous, there are temples, beaches, a bit of culture, the food is good, and it costs nothing: you can get an incredible hotel.”) Super combo. There is no beating that.

  Parisians who have been to Thailand long to go back. Parisians who haven’t will soon enough. A man needs to rest. And Thailand is perfect for that. Tu peux te faire des temples pendant deux trois jours, et après, tu te poses cinq jours dans un hotel de grand luxe, plages de sable blanc. . . . (“You can do the temple thing for three days, and after that, five days at a luxurious hotel, white sand beaches. . . .”) Visiting temples seems like an exhausting thing to do for the Parisian.

  Among a group of Parisians, not wanting to go to Thailand makes you what in America would be designated as socially awkward—unless you are over sixty years old, which is a relevant excuse. It seems suspicious to the Parisian that someone would not judge as eminently pleasurable indulging in Thailand’s super combo.

  Like many Western travelers, the Parisian no longer visits countries. He does them. Checks them off his list. In Paris, that list is the longest one in the world. Parisians have a lot of time off and on average have more money than other French people. As it is long, that list also gets deep. While Thailand sits at the top of the hierarchy along with destinations like Bali, one will find, in the unfathomable darkness of the bottom of the list, destinations like the Dominican Republic or Spain.

  The Parisian is as deeply saddened by the plague of mass tourism gone rampant as he is by climate change. These legitimate worries get conveniently washed off by the magical hands of those Thai massage ladies.

  Really, there is no beating Thailand.

  USEFUL TIP: The various Thai islands do not all come with the same glow. Do your homework.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: A Noël cette année, on va aller en Thaïlande. Un peu de soleil, ça va nous faire du bien. J’en ai vraiment besoin en ce moment. (“At Christmastime this year, we’re going to Thailand. A bit of sun will do us good. I really need it right now.”)

  Le Burger

  Some people think Parisians are Parisian. Wrong. Parisians are New Yorkers. As such, they love a good burger.

  Burgers were once looked down upon in Paris: On n’est pas des Americains, bordel. Imperialism had its limits and the doors of a French restaurant were definitely one. Hamburgers were to food what Jerry Springer was to television. Something Parisians were not ready to cope with. Something America could keep to itself. But things have changed.

  As Parisians started becoming New Yorkers, what was uncool about America started no longer being despised but simply made fun of, while what was cool about America started no longer being ignored but instead adopted.

  A good burger is undoubtedly one of the cool things about America. Over the past decade, burgers started flourishing on the menu of many Paris bistrots and restaurants. A key criterion to place a Paris restaurant on the hipness scale is the number of dishes you could find at a New York restaurant. Have a hamburger, a Caesar salad, and a BLT on your menu and your restaurant will officially be hip.

  Optimists would expect the French to make the burger even better. But optimists certainly do not hang out at hip Paris restaurants. Most burgers there are quite forgettable. The best part about a Paris hamburger is its price. It is virtually impossible to find a burger in Paris for less than 13 euros (approximately U.S.$16). Even gastronomic restaurants have started offering a gastro-burger, usually with foie gras in it.

  When ordering a burger, the Parisian needs to show how much of a New Yorker he is, how comfortable he can be with the whole burger thing. So he will rarely order un hamburger. Most likely, he will ask for le burger or, in the case of a cheeseburger, for le cheese. The nickname “burgie” recently came up among younger Parisian men.

  It is indeed an absolute fact that no Parisian woman has ever ordered a burger at a restaurant. Ever.

  Lovers of timeless Paris can—after all—rest assured.

  USEFUL TIP: Burgers do not come with coleslaw in Paris—for good coleslaw, go to a traiteur.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: J’me ferais bien un p’tit burgie. (“I’d like a little burger right now.”)

  Cobblestone

  Parisians dislike the idea of concrete. Concrete sounds urban and gray. They are no fans of the idea of asphalt either.

  They do, on the other hand, love cobblestones. They love every single thing about them. Cobblestones are one of those rare things each and every Parisian finds fully likable. Full-on unanimity.

  This unanimity finds its roots in the mystique of cobblestones in France. Cobblestone is medieval France, festive, and yet-to-become-glorious France. On these stones, carriages of all sorts have carried goods, ideas, and people. Cobblestones are part of the decor of France. Cobblestones feel like home to the Parisian.

  The history of cobblestones was rather uneventful up until May 1968. Massive protests in France, a taste of petite révolution. Students and workers together united against the bourgeois society. The key slogan of this striking movement was “Sous les pavés la plage.” (“Underneath cobblestones is the beach.”) Cobblestones suddenly became the symbol of an indulgent revolution. They still showed the way, just a different way. They gained a poetic and libertarian dimension. Roads could also have been undone. Paved in a different way.

  The nature of cobblestone roads in Paris reflects this dual identity. Infinitely historic and traditional, while somewhat poetic and revolutionary. Cobblestone streets are bumpy. At first. Then urban erosion does to rocks what it frequently does to souls. Makes them flat.

  The noble mythology of cobblestone in Paris also has to do with a bicycle race: le Paris Roubaix. Every year, pro cyclists leave Paris to cycle to northern France’s Roubaix. They have to cross the much dreaded Travée d’Arenberg, a rider’s version of hell. Cobblestones and rain.

  Cobblestones make life tricky and bumpy. They make it uncertain and poetic. On the streets of Paris, in these cracks between cobblestones resonates a bit of the Parisian soul.

  Who said Parisians were not down to earth?

  USEFUL TIP: High heels and cobblestones rarely work well together. Keep that in mind for your next after-dinner romantic stroll.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Non, un appart top . . . sur cour, tu vois, une petite cour pavée: hyper mignonne! (“A great apartment . . . the building has a courtyard with cobblestones: super cute!”)

  Les Planches de Charcut

  Parisians are aways torn between dieting and being a good friend. Parisian women have vastly solved the problem by meeting up with their girlfriends over tea (woo-hoo!). Parisian men on the other hand usually give in and opt for food and drinks. In the crack of persisting shadows of Catholic guilt grew the concept of conviviality.

  Parisians like the idea of conviviality. There is no conviviality in France without food or drinks on the table. Certain types of food and drinks score more conviviality points than others. In the world of food, nothing is more convivial than qu’ une petite planche. Literally, une planche is a board, a plank. In a Parisian bar or restaurant, there are three types of planches: les planches de charcut, les planches de fromage, and les planches de fromage et charcut. La charcut is short for “charcuterie”: an assortment of smoked and cured meats (saucisson, rillettes, pâtés, ham) usually served with a few cornichons. Fromage is “cheese”: that planche consists of a selection of cheeses (Camembert, Brie, Comté, bleu). A bread basket on the table and . . . la vie est belle!

  Nothing can accompany a glass of wine before a meal better than une p’tite planche. Nonprocessed artisanal products served on a wooden board sure start to sound like genuine stuff. Genuine is the beginning of convivial. A first glass of wine leads to the first planche, which leads to the second
glass, which itself leads to the second planche, and so on. . . .

  Ordering a planche differentiates the Parisian from a tourist at aperitif time in Paris. The tourist will just go for the wine. So passé. It is key for the Parisian man to keep in mind that a Parisian woman will only pretend to enjoy it. Even though she is a total party pooper, she does not want to come across as one. But as soon as the waiter brings the planche, she will long for one thing only: for that planche to be empty. Or gone. She will pretend to listen and enjoy the conversation while most of her energy will be solely dedicated to not giving in and not touching this food. If a gentleman insists, she will come up with her favorite line: Non, merci, j’ai pas trop faim. This, of course, is an absolute lie. But looking skinny comes at a price. And passing on a good planche is definitely a part of it.

  More for the boys!

  USEFUL TIP: Planches are sneaky little things. Watch your back.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: On s’prend une p’tite planche? Charcut? Fromage? Comme tu veux . . . (“Let’s have a little planche? Charcuterie? Cheese? As you like . . .”)

  Wanting to Start a Business

  Being active socially in Paris might be misleading. Meeting up with Parisians for dinner, in bars, or at parties, one may draw some hasty conclusions. One of them could be that the flame of entrepreneurship is consuming every Parisian soul.

  Any conversation about professional life in Paris will necessarily have one Parisian say, “Je réfléchis à monter ma boîte.” (“I’m thinking of starting my own business.”) The Parisian indeed does think a lot. He first thinks that he is not fully épanoui (“full-blown”) in his current job. L’épanouissement is a new Parisian objective. Happiness through work. Over the past two decades, work has stopped being an activity only to provide sufficient money to pay for needs and desires. Work started being about learning things, interacting with interesting people, and having fun. Which probably means that leisure time was about completely different things.

  So awkwardly enough, most Parisians find themselves not fully épanouis in their job. For some reason, they deem that starting a business will put them in a completely different spot. No boss, no hierarchy, no pressure. Unfortunately, some things prevent them from se lancer. Starting a business would mean letting go of their salary, their vacation time, their mutuelle , their comité d’entreprise, and all the other advantages that come with being an employee in France.

  The typical entrepreneurship adventure of the Parisian starts in college. They opt for a job with a company for two years (pour le CV, pour apprendre, pour l’expérience). After these two years, they’ll start their business for sure. Two years later, they did enjoy those three weeks in Thailand last summer, and conveniently, they just got a raise. But the Parisian is still thinking very hard of a concept. Thinking, thinking, thinking . . . Harder than ever. His girlfriend plans a trip to Argentina in the winter. Then comes buying an apartment, getting married, having babies, taking care of the children. The Parisian would love to start a business but ça ne serait pas sérieux, c’est hyper risqué. Time flies by and now the Parisian knows he’d be a really good entrepreneur. But he makes enough money and is not ready to let go of his position after all these years. Then comes the endearing shadow of retirement. The Parisian promises to start a business a few months later, mostly to take advantage of his experience and to occupy his days. But traveling continues and madame wants to move somewhere sunny. Not fully compatible with a new professional adventure.

  The rare Parisians that one day actually start a business have to go through the discovery of an icy French reality. That of the social scorn related to anything business. Starting a business, one may only drop down the great Parisian social ladder. Either he does not do well and is immediately considered an irremediable loser, or he does well and then starts being considered an astute, money-driven, sneaky person. And of course culture deprived. The corollary of success in business in France is an immediate loss in the view of others of any sense of refinement, culture, and ideals. You do well so you’re evil. You do well, probably, actually, because you’re evil.

  Though the Parisian is not aware of the icy treatment entrepreneurs receive in Paris, one may suspect that he senses it. And that, unconsciously, his desire to start a business has to do with the life-long repressed desire to no longer be a good boy.

  USEFUL TIP: Do start a business. Just not in France. France truly is the worst country to make money, but the best one to spend it.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Ouais, je sais pas, je réfléchis. Je monterais bien ma boîte, mais j’sais pas, c’est chaud quand même. (“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m thinking about starting my own business. But I don’t know, it’s tough really.”)

  Relationships

  For visitors, Paris is the City of Love. For Parisians, it is the City of Relationships. Every Parisian is in a relationship. That relationship is more or less official, more or less successful, but it always is. Consequently, there is simply no singles scene in Paris. If sexual tension is what makes a city fun, Paris has officially become the most boring city in the world.

  All young Parisians are in relationships. For them, the main reason to be in a relationship is not to be single. Most young Parisians are averse to life: they see most things as threats, most risks as primarily dangerous, most singular paths as awfully unsafe. Danger for them is around every corner. They think relationships are round little things with no threatening corners; the threats of a relationship they feel they master and choose—this feeling is a reassuring one. Therefore their relationships are long-lasting ones. Not quite good enough to get married, not quite bad enough to break up.

  Being single after the age of twenty-six is the clear indication of a troubled mind. If not a troublemaker, that person has got to be a trouble seeker. While the English language has the good taste of distinguishing “alone” from “lonely,” French only offers seul. Not being in a relationship means being seul. The threatening shadows of loneliness, only darkened by the local inexistence of celibacy.

  Most surrounding elements create the perfect scenario for a life of romantic dissatisfaction: absence of a singles scene leads to sticking with the wrong person, which itself leads to many a frustration, which inevitably—in a nonreligious city—leads to divorces and breakups a few years down the road. Older Parisian men who still have a form of moral and religious grounding do nonetheless stick with their spouses (unless it is the other way around). They like to flirt and compliment beautiful women—which usually amuses the French and shocks foreigners. That charming France—sadly—is vanishing.

  Courting is no longer a Parisian habit. The only way Parisian men like to play it is safe. Parisian women on the other hand, caught in the double obligation to be neither sluts nor single, become not desirable. Absence of flirtation becomes the norm after the age of twenty-six. Curtains closed.

  The dry local environment inhibits natures and ambitions. Ironically enough, as Parisians are more and more in relationships, they become less and less likable. Which, needless to say, makes them stick to their relationships even more.

  USEFUL TIP: If you have a vague fantasy about Parisians, rest assured, the few that do not follow the pattern explained above usually end up with foreigners. Those are the wise ones.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Ils sont ensemble depuis cinq ans. . . . Ouais, ça se passe bien je crois. . . . Non, ils sont pas mariés, non non. (“They’ve been together for five years. . . .Yeah, it’s been going well, I think. . . . No, they aren’t married.”)

  UNICEF Cards

  Current Parisian culture has a greater inclination to assist than to construct. If he’s in a position to give, the Parisian won’t try to build something: he will contribute.

  In the Parisian scale of generosities, that to children scores the most points. There is no better deed in life than helping a child in need. Unlike other charities, those that help children are therefore never suspected of being vaguely corrupt or paying their staff too much. The
Parisian wants all the money to go to the kids—that is, when it comes to donations, his insuperable rule.

  UNICEF is a charity Parisians don’t know a whole lot about. But, damn, it sounds good. Fully international, global spread, helping children, promoting education . . . and making calendars and cards. Parisians love the idea of the three in one. By buying a UNICEF card, they send greetings to someone that matters to them, they show they care about poverty, and they help kids. UNICEF cards make all other greeting cards look crass.

  The cards Parisians will prefer are the ones showing cute faces of dark-skinned children. It is important for these children to smile or look cute. Images of simple joy are something Parisians cannot get enough of. Add cute children, extreme poverty, and the feeling that he has helped and you’ll plunge the Parisian into mild bliss. The Parisian will usually leave this card on his desk or on his fridge. For quite some time. He will make a note to himself to start sending UNICEF cards, too.

  The Parisian will consider UNICEF cards as an indication of how caring one is—caring, rather than generous. He will have to accept that by sending these cards, he will show a form of Christian heritage. This is not acceptable in all circles: in Paris, it is OK to be religious, but not really a Christian.