The waiters in the Café de la Mairie have such an outsize helping of amour propre (self respect).

There’s this waiter, a toreador. He studies himself in the mirror at the back of the room that makes the place look bigger, inflates his chest, pulls down his waistcoat, goes into battle.

There’s this English guy sitting at the next table (not a tourist). The waiter goes over to him, says, “Bonjour Monsieur.” The man doesn’t answer. He’s talking to his friend (I think a buisness contact). Waiter waits. Man doesn’t answer. Waiter, insulted, bellows, “BONJOUR, MONSIEUR!” Man orders.

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