by Louise Heal

Created on: June 28, 2007   Last Updated: November 24, 2008

The Cafe Panis is on the corner of two Left Bank streets. One set of windows faces Notre Dame Cathedral over a bridge, the other set faces across a side street to a small park. During the summer months, chairs and small round tables are set out on the pavement.

Red leather benches are set back-to-back inside the cafe and separated by semi-transparent glass panes. Adults lean their heads against the glass and curious children stand on the benches to look through the glass at the customers on the other side. The shiny chrome rails along the top of the glass match those on the bar and the table tops are marked by rings and the ghosts of damp cloths.

Framed posters decorate the walls. They advertise art exhibitions or plays and have clearly been here for a while. One poster is for an exhibition in 1980. A blackboard on one wall displays the Menu du Jour and seasonal specialties. It is written in curly French script. Even on a first visit, the atmosphere is reassuringly unchanging.

Tourists and locals frequent the Cafe Panis. All come to adore the view, but they see different things.

The locals arrive early in the morning on their way to work. They travel alone, carry nothing except a copy of Le Monde or L'Equipe and appear pre-occupied. They do not defer to the waiters.

"Espresso and a glass of water. Do you have an ashtray?" This while opening the cellophane on a cigarette packet.

"Oui monsieur". A slight nod of the head as the waiter departs.

The waiter reappears with a tray bearing all of the above, almost before the Parisian bottom has touched the chair. The gentleman then sits cross-legged, in superior Gallic solitude, blowing neat puffs of smoke into the air and taking small, precise sips from a tiny espresso cup. His gaze is focused on the middle distance, except if an attractive lady passes by. Then it is his turn to nod his head slightly:

"Bonjour Madame" with a polite smile and, maybe, a tiny raise of the eyebrows.

The lady looks away, whilst at the same time pulling her shoulders back and looking pleased.

The tourists arrive later, after their morning's sightseeing. They carrry cameras, guide books and small white plastic bags containing postcards. They usually hunt in packs, although occasionally a brave soul breaks free and arrives alone. He or she looks around nervously before taking a seat. They are afraid of being shepherded back into the herd.

The waiters know exactly how to behave when the tourists arrive.

They pull out tables, rearrange chairs, indicate the toilets. They are the epitome of polite helpfulness and charm

"Four coffees, please" the leader of the tourists says, often in English and holding up four fingers to help the waiter out.

"Bien sur madame". Again the nod of the head, respectfully polite this time.

After a longer interval, a few moments even, he reappears with a tray and puts the coffees down on the table with a flourish and a smile. The tourists smile back in acknowledgment, grateful to have found such a superior waiter. They somehow feel indebted to him and leave a large tip.

They drink their coffees from the large cups and gaze at the cathedral. They look away only to admire the cathedral.

And so is the hierarchy established: Parisian, Waiter, Tourist.

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