Andre

Our last night in Paris, my brother and I went out to get a drink around our hotel to kill time before meeting our parents for dinner. We had no idea where to go, so we randomly turned down streets hoping to stumble upon a cool bar. After wandering around for about 10 minutes, we were back about 1 block from where we had started, and for the sake of making things easier, just decided to sit down at the closest bar. It was touristy and not ideal, but we sat down. My brother had been there to watch one of the Euro Cup games, and when he caught a glimpse of the waiter, he warned, "That guy's a dick." We shrugged our shoulders and sat down to take a look at the menu. If I were a cartoon character, my eyes would have popped out of my head and moved back and forth like a zoom lens focusing, because the prices were so inflated. A water, for example was $8. Now as much as I liked the view from that bar, an $8 water or a $15 cocktail was too much for me to swallow... my brother felt the same. We put the menus back down and started to leave. Before I knew what hit me, the waiter my brother had pointed out earlier was upon us like an enraged bear. He grabbed the menus and slapped them back down on the table, as if correcting our improper placement of them. He looked at me with fury and hatred in his eyes and spat, "Bonsoir!! Bonne soiree!!" which by his tone, actually translated to, "Get lost you English speaking scum! You are not worthy of my watered-down over-priced cocktails!!!" (probably with a few expletives sprinkled in).
"Bonne soiree," I mouthed, as I had lost my ability to create sound for a few seconds from the shock of it all. My brother and I walked on, and I wondered if experiences like these were common and if they were, whether they were the reason why Americans think that French people are rude.

Fortunately, from that point on, things took a turn for the better. We walked into a small bar that was just a bar- no view, no outside seating, but that was fine. There was beer and wine. The selection was listed in loopy cursive on chalkboards and the prices were more normal. I squeezed into the chair closest to the wall at a table by the window. My brother got up to order drinks and was soon accosted by a jolly bearded man, who was translating what the bartender had said into English.... this was Andre. My brother spoke to him in French and he apologized, explaining that he always tries to help English speakers who look like they may need it, that he didn't know that we spoke French. My brother returned shortly (we were two of the 5 total customers) with a pint of beer and a glass of wine. We then lapsed back into English, because this is what we speak together. Andre must have heard us, because he approached our table, wagging his finger, like he had caught us being naughty and in French said, "First I try to speak to you in English and you speak to me in French and now you go back to your table and speak in English... No, no, no, this is not allowed! When you are here, you speak French." My brother and I laughed. Andre returned to his stool at the bar- he was a regular, and even had his picture on one of the bar walls (which he later showed us), along with a place for people to leave him messages if he wasn't there. Andre continued to talk to us from across the bar, which wasn't actually very far at all, but soon just came, pulled up a chair, and talked our ears off for the next hour and a half.

He thought my brother and I were married at first. When we told him we weren't, he advised my brother to take me down the street to another bar, saying that I would probably go for 3 camels. Although he looked like he could easily get a seasonal gig as Kris Kringle at the local mall, because of his thick white beard, hair, and small spectacles, he was actually a stock broker. He told us about his life- how his wife is American and that he spent several years working in New York. He bought us rounds of drinks and continued with his stories. Andre talked in detail about traditional French dishes and lauded French wines. When we brought up American wines, just to make conversation, he dismissed the idea that California wines were any good with a flick of his hand and a look of disappointment in our lack of good judgment and taste. We didn't actually need to make conversation though, because Andre was taking care of that on his own. I looked at my brother wide-eyed as he polished off his second 1/2 liter of beer and started on his third... the wine was definitely getting to my head. Andre talked about his future plans to travel around the US, cracking jokes, which he followed by rubbing our arms and raking my brother's arm with his fingers back and forth. I cracked up as I tried to imagine my brother's thoughts at that point and enjoyed the complete randomness of it all. Several stories later, it came time to meet our parents for dinner and bid farewell to our new friend. If we hadn't had an excuse to leave, I think we would have been there to the wee hours. Andre kissed us goodbye and gave us each the bar's business card. It's not his bar, but I don't doubt that even in a few years if we return, that we'll find him there... and if not, at least we'll be able to leave him a message on his wall.