At Brasserie Lipp you’re greeted by a man wearing a suit, grey or dark blue. The man I’m thinking of has silver hair around the temples and is left-handed (southpaws notice our own). He’s not tall but his power is formidable. He keeps a list of reservations, in his own handwriting, and, upon arrival, decides if you’re worthy of a seat in the front room, or if you’ll be relegated to the back along with men in baseball hats and shorts.
Once seated, or installed, as they say, a different man in a dinner jacket hands you menus and asks if you’d like an aperitif, this is the very small realm of the French language where I’m fluent. He returns and takes your order on a small pad of paper with a silver pen. He hands this sheet to another man, also in a black suit, bow tie and vest, but also a long white apron that runs from his waist to his ankles. This man is your server. He sets down lemon for oysters, mustard for choucroute, a ceramic pot of gherkins, crème fraiche with your tarte tatin, along with everything else you order. Another man who might take your dishes, though some times the server does as well.
You might see any of these men a few doors down from the the café smoking cigarettes before their shifts begin at noon. They work in close quarters, but crucially, their jobs do not overlap. Yes, the man who took your order might, under duress on a busy Thursday night, filet a Dover sole—after all he worked his way up, over a few decades. But do not ask, or expect, one to do the job of another. There’s a system. Once you become aware of it you never ignore it again.
Welcome to France.