Jane T. Tolbert – Café Sitting, the French Way, an article based on more than 20 years of café sitting in various cities and villages of France.
Travelers returning to the States often find the absence of cafes noticeable if not annoying. Cafes are on every street corner in France and for centuries have been the mainstay of civilization. Writers, artists, absinthe drinkers, the illustrious, the luminaries, and the renegades have long adopted the cafesitting style of life. For the most part, clientele consists of average people and pets. The outdoor terrace has chairs and small tables, and a black board with a white inscription carrying the menu. Inside the woman behind the counter may be the girlfriend or the wife of the owner. Large dogs are often underfoot, spread comfortably across the entry, surveying the scene through half-closed eyes. These languid beasts spring into action at the whiff of a croque monsieur or even the sight of wrapped sugar cubes that accompany an espresso to the table.
Shelves behind the bar display bottles of flavored syrups--mint, strawberry or blackberry—fruit juices, or beers. Alcohols include scotch, martini vermount, and numerous brands of pastis. I am in the South of France, after all. In the middle of the counter, an elaborate chrome- plated espresso machine fizzes and hisses, and spurts alongside a pyramid of white porcelain cups.
Cafes have names like the Auberge Fleuri, le Flore, la Cupole, but most of the time, no one remembers the name. Instead the cafes are known as chez Mario or Amelie or Francois.
The wide spectrum of cafés includes those seedy-looking places in need of repair with the long-standing reputation. At the other end, the newer more luxurious parlors with their upholstered chairs and booths. In the 1970s, the worn tile floor of the Café de Flore was carpeted with cigarette butts. Chairs sagged under the weight of decades of patrons. The café had been a popular watering hole for generations. In the winter, the air was a suffocating mixture of heat and cigarette smoke while in summers, the terraces opened to the noise and exhaust fumes of the street. The poker-faced maitre d’ with the ashen complexion never forgot a face. In contast, Les Glaces had art deco wallpaper and a jukebox that played top hits. A wasp-waisted garcon raced back and forth filling orders and making change with the coins in his six-pocketed vest. His black pants lacked one half centimeter of dragging the floor.
Some cafes fill a function in addition to serving food and drink. The PMU sells lottery tickets and cigarettes as well as the local newspaper. Other cafes also act as an employment agency, matching workers with potential employers. Of course, these transactions take place under the table, and workers are generally not declared. But that’s another story.
The success of a café is not determined by its decor but by some intangible quality—that je ne sais quoi that attracts a loyal clientele. The blue collar cafes have their regular group—those men who appear several times a day—before work for an espresso, which they enjoyed with their cigarette before the laws changed, at noon for an aperitif, and again in the evenings to meet with friends. They also appear on Sunday mornings, baguette and newspaper in hand. With their ever-present berets squashed down over reddish complexions, they lean heavily on the counter an order—a little glass of white wine or something stronger. Or they order mineral water, explaining to anyone who might be listening their douleurs au foie or liver problems. Conversation is punctuated by curses like putain, acceptable in the South of France, or the more genteel zut or mince in mixed company. Talk centers on weather, the hunting season, or the plague of tourists and Parisians responsible for all ills such as traffic jams and the poor economy.
Other cafes are frequented by regulars who seem to have no schedule but have perfected the skill of café sitting. They come expressly to watch or talk, food and drink are secondary. They distract themselves in conversation or with that well-cultivated look of ennui or boredom, the French have mastered.
(Drawing by Margaret R. Tolbert)I remember when I approached a café for the first time—an experience bordering on the traumatic. The feeling was much like that of stepping into the wrong hotel room. A hush fell, glasses and cigarettes paused, and heads craned. I settled in, ordered a large cappuccino, and studied the regulars. How did they move? A perfectly choreographed dance of clients, waiters, dogs, and shopping bags seemed to move, never colliding. With a fluid motion, the regulars unfurled their bodies at a small round table and arranged themselves in the most alarming pose. They draped their body in an S-shape loosely over a chair. They looked like disinterested spectators or they engaged in animated conversation, leaning over a table crowded with an ashtray, two coffees, and sugar cubes, somehow finding room for hands and elbows. The small table does encourage intimate conversation.
Now, years later with more than two decades of experience in this art of café sitting, I too enter an establishment with ease. I take my regular seat with the best view of the terrace. I nod to the garcon who remembers my order.
At Juan-les-Pins, my favorite café is the Crystal, just across from the casino. The dark reddish exterior bears the logo of the café—the letter Y in the name looks like a glass of sparkling champagne. The terraces are filled in winter and summer alike. Most mornings, an elderly lady arrives with her Boston bull. They both eagerly eye the basket containing their two orders of croissants that accompany their two large cappuccinos to which they will add numerous sugar cubes. On warm evenings, this café terrace offers a window to the world of luxury cars. Before 8 p.m., drinks are served with a plate of hors d’oeuves of melted cheese or olive paste on small toasts. After 8 p.m., it’s only peanuts. But the café serves clients until the wee hours of the morning.
The long rainy winter and the poor economy have kept most of us away from the café terraces. I have only recently returned. I want to perfect this skill before I return to the States where I hope to discover some new cafes.
