I find myself a stranger in a strange land. A harsh land. A land of “no’s” and very few “yes’s”. The smell of perfectly butter-puffed croissants can’t quite mask the thick air of disdain when I say something super American or respond with that authentic brand of over-enthusiasm ie loudness. People have said that if you learn the language, the French people will respect you more. Well, when it comes to Parisians, it takes a bit more than that. I mean, you actually have to BECOME French, which, I hear, getting your citizenship is nearly impossible. Even for my friends who have lived here for decades. But language is connection and all we have wanted for the last three weeks is to connect with someone, anyone, on getting a “good” cup of coffee. (Reference my post from 9/21/24, Not Emily In Paris).
Annnnnnnnd, we thought we’d finally figured it out. Tor found a brûlerie (a coffee roaster) that has a variety of flavors and gadgets and filters and fluff to make that oh-so-fancy brew. We didn’t want a fancy brew, we just wanted a normal, filtered coffee in the morning with a normal creamer experience which is definitely NOT normal in France.
The brûlerie had an oat milk creamer which seemed promising and a salesperson who spoke English which also seemed promising. We got it along with two pounds of a filter-friendly grind for a generic drip coffee maker. The next morning, we whiffed that beautiful, rich smell of familiarity, and it was…drum roll…still not great. Closer to fine (cue the Indigo Girls), but not great.
I may or may not have cried. What in the world is wrong with this country?! A country where all things gastronomic are world-class perfection?! Why can’t they get their fucking coffee right?! Their wine is right. Their desserts are right. Their ten-course gastro-marathon-meals are certainly right. It’s like, they gave-up on the one thing that actually kicks-off all the things that are right about their daily consumption and let it be terribly wrong!! And I wouldn’t accept it.
As I was taking my morning walk in my favorite park in Paris, (Le Parc des Buttes Chaumont), rolling around in my head how we could, at the very least, put a band-aid on this for ourselves, I decided everything coffee could be corrected if I just found a store that sold our SOWN Sweet & Creamy creamer that we normally get at Whole Foods. Right then, I pivoted mid-hill and bee-lined for the nearest faux Whole Foods, Naturalia, with a mission and zero expectations. That’s I lie. I had one pretty big expectation: if this place didn’t have SOWN, then maybe they could order it for me. I would be purchasing in bulk and willing to pay top-euro for it. How could they deny me that?
Discovering that they didn’t have SOWN, I wasn’t fazed. I was emboldened. After all, I had a plan. I glided over to see the cashier, put my vegetables on the counter and asked, in French of course, if she could look at the picture on Amazon of the brand I was looking for and order it for me.
Meanwhile, a proper, seventy-ish, chic woman came up behind me and heard me ask about the product. She stomped her kitten-heeled, Farragamo pumps ever-so-slightly on the floor with a degree of exasperation. When the cashier called to thestock boy to ask if he could grab an oat milk creamer from the back for me, Madame Kitten Heels started tapping her toes with a higher degree of exasperation. Then an, “Oh là là” followed by an eye roll. I joked with the cashier in French that Madame Kitten Heels hated me and that’s when she pushed her produce ahead of mine to be checked out. I tried charming her by saying, in French, “I’m so sorry. I’m American and my coffee is very important to me. It’s very difficult to find the right creamer here.” To which she replied, “Well, this is France!”, followed by a “pfffffft” of disdain along with an eye scan up and down of disapproval of my athleisure wear. I felt a pang in my heart. I mean, I was honoring her with the “vous” form of my verbs and speaking in perfect French, trying to respectfully connect with my American charm and I was losing the fight. But I had one, last-ditch pleasantry, “And, it’s because I love France so much that I moved here for a year!” But she clicked her kitten heels right on out the “porte” and had nothing else to say to that. I turned to the cashier and sarcastically said, “Well she was nice,” to which she replied without missing a beat, “This is also France.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are in MY country?! You don’t like our coffee? Go back where you came from! We don’t have your cream? Then maybe you should return to America and suck on all the teets of your Round-Up poisoned, ‘roided-out, cancer cows!”
I left with my tail between my legs. Deep down I felt defeated. I was not only here to win the coffee game, but I was also here, in France, to win-over EVERYONE and I had not. Toting, yet another shitty oat milk creamer, I walked the two blocks home mumbling every retort I could have thought of in French back at her. Madame Kitten Heels couldn’t even fathom the depths of my middle school grade comebacks. I couldn’t wait to tell Tor about my last little reality check but he wasn’t home so I made myself another closer-to-fine cup of coffee (again, with the Indigo Girls) and ate two Nutella cookies to ease the pain.
But, not even Nutella, nor the Indigo Girls, could dull the feeling of not belonging. That, “Who the fuck do you think you are in MY country?! You don’t like our coffee? Go back where you came from! We don’t have your cream? Then maybe you should return to America and suck on all the teets of your Round-Up poisoned, ‘roided-out, cancer cows!”, kind of feeling cut deep.
(Below is a snippet from French comedy great, Oliver Giraud’s, show, “How To Become Parisian In One Hour” depicting how Parisian’s act while waiting for something. This is as close to what was thrown my way by Mme Kitten Heels.)
As charming as I thought I was, and as good as my French has gotten, Madame Kitten Heels did not find me charming. In fact, she probably finds NOTHING charming about ANYTHING American. She was old school. She was elegant. She probably looks at all the McDo’s and the KFC’s and the new, two story, 5 Guys Burgers they are installing in Place de la République and thinks, “What is happening to my city???” I get it. Everything I had worked for meant nothing in the eyes of this societal matriarch and even worse, meant nothing to me anymore. All I wanted was Jeff Bezos to send me my six pack of Sown Sweet and Creamy to make me feel better. Was that too much to ask??
And then I stopped myself in my own disgusting, American tracks. This is exactly what Madame Kitten Heels was rolling her eyes at. I was hyper-focusing on what France wasn’t and who didn’t want to play with me on the French fucking playground instead of acknowledging what has gone “right” in the last three weeks here in the 19th arrondissement:
We have found a 3 p.m. “home” at our café across the street where we are greeted by Jomir and François and allowed to sit in the “eating only” area even when we aren’t eating because we are now considered “potes” (friends). They immediately bring us our café crèmes: one sugar for me and six sugars for Tor who has lovingly been nicknamed “Mr. Sucre” (Mr. Sugar). We strike-up conversations with random strangers sitting next to us about anything and nothing, sometimes walking away with new WhatsApp contacts, sometimes not. Either way, our hearts are opened a little wider for the exchange.
We have our favorite boucherie where we grab our weekly rotisserie chicken that is so fresh you can still see the poulet’s open pores from its pluck the day before; its taste isn’t masked by a bunch of “Latin Style” herbs on it like the ones from our grocery store in Brooklyn. It is pure. It tastes like the country pen it clucked around in. It was three times the size (and twice the money) but zero hormones. Just…chicken. Robert, the butcher, has come to expect our request and saves us one of these beauts because they usually sell out by 2 p.m.
There’s our fromagerie guy who has the kindest smile and knows to hold back a block of Sardinian pecorino for Tor on Wednesdays, and our boulangerie girl who grabs our daily “baguette traditionnelle blanche” before dinner. We’ve befriended the Spanish duo working the fish stand run by a Chinese lady who always says “hola!” with a tinge of a French and Chinese accent in chronological order of when she learned to speak Spanish. And of course, Harut at the Orange cellular store, who we seem to need every other week because we don’t know how to top-up our fucking SIM cards. He and Tor share a smoke and talk about how Paris is impossible to live in on minimum wage much like New York. How in the world do people do it? They just do. Aha! We did belong! Madame Kitten Heels may have won that day, but in the long game of winning EVERYONE over, I suppose I was still ahead, 8ish-1.
Becoming French isn’t at all about becoming a citizen and communicating isn’t all about learning the language and conjugating verbs. It’s about accepting your surroundings for what they are and allowing them to envelop you. We were becoming French and we had a whole neighborhood to prove it. So, “merci beaucoup” to Madame Kitten Heels for opening my eyes to this revelation and reminding me of the simple acts of letting go and being here. If I wanted my American coffee, I would have stayed in America. Vive la France! Give me your shitty coffee! Give me your eye rolls and your “oh là là’s” and your “non’s”! I’m here for it!
Now, where can I find me some kitten heels?
In Laughter,
LStL
A Few American Faux Pas’s To Watch Out For:
1.) Never say, “I’m American.” The moment you say that, they stop listening…if you’re lucky. If you’re not lucky, you are about to be dismissed with a nonsensical mouth fart. Tell them you are Canadian.
2.) Never say “But, in America we blah blah blah…(whatever the thing is). The inevitable answer will always be, “But this is France.”
3.) Never try to joke with a Parisian over the age of 70. You aren’t funny with your little American accent no matter how good the joke you might have up your sleeve may be.
4.) Never try to “tutoyer” a Parisian over the age of 70. This is a very specific hierarchy language thing that happens in French. The older generation would like to be addressed in the “vous” form always. So, if you haven’t practiced the conjugations of the verbs in this form, you will promptly be corrected.
5.) Don’t refer to pictures of things on Amazon. You’re just an asshole if you do that.
Lastly, I will leave you with a Madame Kitten Heels we all know and love:
Full Youtube Video from “How To Become Parisian In One Hour”:
Luke! Thank you so much for the compliment below, and also, the great idea to post on expat sites! I will look into it. And if you stumble across any, please feel free to share too! Mwah! xx oh, and if my version of life here looked like Emily's, I'd be wearing MUCH better clothes.
You’re a great writer! I wish you would share this on a Paris expats site so you get more readers enjoying it.
I find it funny that you have that American enthusiasm and gusto in abundance and have landed in a world where cynicism and complaining are frequent. Also, this episode reminds me of Emilie in Paris, though I haven’t watched it.