How to Baffle a French Waiter: Just Ask for Coffee "To Go"!

Georges Goursat [Sem] (1863-1934) French, A Woman in Red and a Waiter with a Forked Beard, ca. 1900, color lithograph. Public Domain.

One evening as I was walking back to my hotel in Paris, I stopped (as I often did!) to buy a crèpe from one of the street vendors on a Montmartre corner. Warm sugar and lemon goodness in hand, I thought a coffee would be an excellent accompaniment and popped into the next cafè I passed thinking that I would grab one to go, then hurry on to my room to tuck into my late-night snack. What I didn’t know was that my beautifully conceived plan was about to be slightly derailed by a French waiter who had absolutely no understanding of the concept of “to go”!

This pivotal event occurred during my 30th birthday trip, so my French was ok but far from good enough to convey my plan and why I thought it was so great. The waiter, bless him, kept trying to understand but kept motioning to a table saying, “Ici, mademoiselle…” At some point I was finally able to piece together enough French to say that I wanted “un café à emporter à l’hôtel”. Now, some things you just know immediately will stick with you, and I can only imagine that the look of horror that flashed over his face was akin to witnessing the storming of the Bastille. “Mais non, mademoiselle. Installez-vous à la table, et je vais vous servir. C’est mon plaisir!” We have already established that this was not my plan, and finally the lovely gentleman, deflated of all hope, conceded with a heavy sigh, disappeared into the back, and reappeared a few minutes later with a small plastic cup with no lid filled with un café au lait.

As I fled in a foggy state pondering what had just transpired, it occurred to me that the French are known for their café culture for a reason. A soft laugh passed with the wind across my lips as I thought of how I may have just gone down in the lore of that French café as the American who wanted coffee to go. I imagined the waiter sitting with a glass of red wine after a long shift trying to explain to the regular patrons. Mouths slightly agape and forlorn mutterings of “Mais, pourquoi??!”

I made it back to my room with my now lukewarm crèpe and coffee, which really drove the message of slow living home. Had I simply settled in at that little café, not only could I have enjoyed my treat fresh and comforting in its warmth, I also could have been more present and aware in the moment. Perhaps I would have lingered long enough to learn a new phrase or two, overheard from the couple chatting at the next table. Or, maybe I would have savored the delightful tune of ceramic cups and dishes clinking and harmonizing with the sound of the steam from the espresso machine. Alas, I will never know what may have happened that fateful evening, but I have never forgotten the lesson. And I for sure have never again asked for anything “to go” in Paris!