Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Cafe Comfort

I am an unabashed Francophile. Even during our national temper tantrum that put "freedom fries" on the menu, my fries were always French. One of the things I love most about living in San Francisco is its similarities to Paris, nowhere more so than in the cafe culture of both. Though separated by an ocean and a continent, San Francisco and Paris are cut from the same cafe cloth.

There are many other similarities between the two, they're not called sister cities just for the way coffee is consumed. They are both architecturally beautiful, and philosophically inclusive. They each have a history and traditions that they fiercely protect. Their focus is not on change -- they like who they are and what they have and will march (SF) and strike (Paris) to the death to preserve it.

In San Francisco, as in Paris, there are cafes on every street. North Beach is one big sidewalk cafe; one has to walk single file to traverse the area, and then share even that narrow space with dogs leashed to parking meters. Which reminds me of another sister city similarity: both adore their dogs, who are walked, carried, and driven everywhere their owners go. Parisian pets, however, are not parked outside cafes, they are invited in. A bowl of water is often placed under Madame's table for her guest. And one dog per Parisian seems to be enough. San Franciscans, like most Americans, need more than enough of a good thing and are often seen hanging on to two or three leashes.

Even with so many cafes to choose from, when the need for a cup and companionship arises, our instincts often lead us to the same place, our place. We may even have a favorite table at that place, and a coffee choice that, in Paris, immediately becomes identified with us and is served by a savvy waiter as soon as we're seated. This is what I call cafe comfort. You can't buy it, you're just happy -- and lucky -- to be living it.

American cafes are size-obsessed and one has to learn an esoteric vocabulary to assure getting the desired amount of coffee. Just ordering "small," for example, doesn't do it. In Paris cafes, size is not a factor. There is no "large," and no cup runneth over. They are tiny and never filled to the brim. Parisians don't drink coffee out of soup bowls that require two hands to lift. If eavesdropping in public places is your thing, you'll find much to cherish here. I sat alone at a cafe on rue de Rivoli one day, tuned-in in the conversations around me. A man at a nearby table summoned his waiter and ordered a refill. I knew he was American when he said, "This time, fill the cup."

Both San Franciscans and Parisians love to linger at their cafes, but they linger differently. In Paris, one sips and observes the passing scene. In any direction one looks, there is something to soothe the soul: the spire on a historic cathedral, the mesmerizing bateau traffic on the Seine, the smartly turned-out Parisian women. Even just staring serenely into space is a respected activity.

While Americans linger at their cafes, they haven't yet learned the European art of relaxing. No sooner are they seated, when out comes the laptop or the yellow pad. I've come to the conclusion that, in San Francisco, the great American pastime is writing the Great American Novel. If cafe patrons aren't writing, they're reading, or knitting, or conducting business on their cell phones.

The unique similarity is, in both places, waiters don't intrude -- not on the serenity of Parisians, nor on the busy-ness of San Franciscans. Recently, I was at a cafe in North Beach during the peak lunchtime crush. Every table was occupied; there was a line waiting to be seated. When four people vacated the two tables next to mine, two men quickly claimed both. They set up a chess board on one, coffee mugs on the other, and settled in for a long, intense game. Being from New York, I expected a waiter to appear, "ask" them to free up one table, fold up their game board, drink up, and move out. It never happened. It's quite possible those two men are still at those two tables. Chess, after all, is a game that can't be rushed.

The unflappable laissez-faire attitude of the French, I'm happy to report, is alive and well in San Francisco.

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