No. 8 “The Ugly American: Part Deux”
Without a word, he set the coffee, omelette and avocado toast down in front of me, removed the empty coffee cup, and left.
Now, had I not transformed into the Ugly American at this point, things may have gone differently. I would’ve eaten my omelette and avocado toast and drank my damn coffee and got up, walked out of the hotel and gotten on with my day. But there was something about my mood - incensed, airless, and in the deepest most existential way, fucking hungry - that compelled me to make my opinion known.
The omelette was green. And not the sort of green one would get if, say, one whipped some green onions in with the eggs, which would have been delicious. I’m talking fluorescent green. Nuclear green. Easter egg green. The kind’ve light, yellowish green you’d expect from the packaging of nitrogenous fertilizer. A verdant, leaf-like green, the likes of which you see in the spikey, thorny leaves of a newly sprouted dandelion tainting a fresh bed of tulips. Indeed, my dear, it was chlorophyll green.
I took a bite. And it tasted like it looked. Like they pureed a dandelion leaf, put it in a pot, reduced it to its essence, then poured it into the whipped eggs. I was disgusted.
The avocado toast was no better. There were two, pathetic, two inch by four inch pieces of wheat toast, cut perfectly square, with, perhaps a sixteenth of an inch - or as I am in France, 0.05 centimeters - of avocado. And, it was topped by similarly sliced - wait for it - grapefruit.
The only redeeming reason for the grapefuit’s presence is that I am now able to write the French word for grapefruit: pamplemousse. Of which, I will argue, may be one of the best words in any language, ever. That notwithstanding, it had no business whatsoever on my avocado toast.
I called over the waiter. He was Asian, with creamy skin, dark hair casually parted on the side. The uniform of the waiters in the Bistro D’Aumont - a grey vest, white shirt and grey slacks - fit him well.
In that split second between when he arrived at my table, and when I opened my mouth to explain the problem, I made the calculation to spare him my thesis about the character of some French chefs, of which, I will expound upon, for you, now.
A classic problem that the French, and many non-French Michelin starred chefs, have, is that they try to do too much. In the attempt to be creative, they produce food that is inedible. You may remember the chorizo with chevre and pineapple canapes they served in La Premiere on my flight the day before. I sum up this tendency by saying, “just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.” Yes, you can infuse eggs with chlorophyll and make a neon green omelette, but should you? Yes, you can set upon beautiful avocado, two slices of pamplemousse, but should you? In both cases, the answer is no.
“Oui monsieur,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“This is disgusting,” I said. “Send them back. Both of them. I can’t eat that.”
“Oh no, monsieur, but what is the problem?”
And this is the funny thing. Were I anywhere else, say Les Deux Magots in Saint Germain, a restaurant known for snotty service since Gertrude Stein and Earnest Hemingway drank their Pastis there, they would take the food away and never come back and just let me sit. But here, at the fabled Crillon, an unhappy guest was unacceptable.
“That omelette. It tastes like I’m eating a fern. And the avocado toast? Who puts grapefruit on avocado? Do you actually expect me to eat that? And why is it so small? Where I am from…”
Yes, my friend, how ugly American can you get? I had the gall to suppose that this poor unsuspecting breakfast waiter, and his chef, would conform to expectations set in a world he did not know, and is, on many counts, vastly inferior to the one I was inhabiting at that moment. And therefore it is a world most likely he wouldn’t care, nor need, to know. That is, until I, rudely, made my distaste his business.
I continued, “where I am from, we get the whole avocado, on a big piece of toast. Not some miniscule, stingy little slices of bread with the crusts cut off. And grapefruit? With avocado? Who does that?”
Funny. Now I had his attention. In certain places, definitely not at Les Deux Magots, but many of the upper class, €60 for breakfast type places, if you send something back, they notice it. In fact, I would say it actually earns their respect. You aren’t just some shlock that rolled in like a tumbleweed who would eat anything. You, or I in this case, am a man of cultivation and taste, who has standards and expectations, and these standards and expectations are certainly not being met in a place I expect them to be met at all times.
I stopped just short of telling him how much the rooms at this hotel cost - they start at €700 a night, a fact that he most likely knew - but didn’t tell him how much I was paying, which was zero.
And, by the way, I was now there for an hour and fifteen minutes and all I had ingested was an extremely strong, heavily sugared cup of coffee with plenty of lait chaud.
“Je suis désolée, monsieur. I can have the chef remake it for you. How would you like it?”
“Just give me the two pieces of bread, with half the avocado on each. Hold the pamplemousse.” I couldn’t resist. It is the best word, out of all the words, in all the languages. And when will I get to use it again?
“Oui monsieur. Right away” and he left.
Three minutes elapsed. And he, the same guy, came back with a plate of avocado toast. “Is that better?” he asked.
This time, there were two slices of white bread, toasted, and cut, very precisely, in the shape of right triangles. In fact, the two 90 degree angles were oriented the same way on the plate. The avocado, which I will add was perfectly ripe and without any blemishes, consisted of three slices on each piece of bread. The slices were an architectural wonder, perched on the bread, nearly standing straight up - the chef can’t help but be creative. Thankfully, though regretfully, I had no reason to use the word pamplemousse again.
At this point, the ugly American subsided. I smiled broadly and thanked him, obsequiously, for his expedient customer service.
He smiled too, and it was a beautiful smile. That was a special privilege, because in France, if you smile, they think you’re stupid. Which is funny.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“California,” I said. “The Napa Valley. Ever heard of it?”
“I have. They make wine there?”
“Oh you have?” my surprise being both genuine and an attempt, though minor, at humility.
“Yes. But I have never been.”
“Oh, well you should come! Its a beautiful place.” And then, to emphasize my appreciation, I said, “thank you very much for your service,” genuinely meaning it. “Where are you from?”
“My mother is Thai and my father is Vietnamese. They brought me to Paris when I was very young.” That fascinated me, and made me envious. What an amazing life to live, to have such disparate cultures mix.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Jean Henri,” I said, in my best French accent. Jean Henri, the French equivalent to John Henry, is a very common name in France. “And yours?” I asked.
“Kingsley” he said.
“Well Kingsley, thank you so much. It was a pleasure meeting you and I very much appreciate you’re taking care of me. Merci beaucoup.”
“Je vous en prie, monsieur,” he responded. “Bon journee!”
And that was that. I gobbled down my avocado toast, finished my cup of coffee and left.