A Waiter in Paris

He finally gets a job as a runner and on the first day he is told, "If you don't smoke... start. You think you can take a pause if you simply say you want to stand... comment dire? Outside? Never, non ami. Never." He laughs. "To smoke, it is to be free."

Also, if you're wondering what a runner is, so is he. He literally has no idea what he's supposed to do and barely speaks French.

Putain = bitch / whore. He gets called this a lot.

Sundays suck for waiters. It's an endless assault of customers. One waiter apparently pretended, or became, very Catholic so he could miss half of Sundays.

The hostess Pauline determines where to sit people when they walk in, instantly judging and ranking them. The higher the rank, the closer to the center. Some nights the center table is never taken because nobody worthy of it walks in. He asks her how she does it.

"It's about elegance. You're English. You wouldn't understand."

"Define elegance."

"Never too much; never too little."

Salvatore, the Italian waiter, gives him life advice: Vivi dove i pomodori sono buoni. Live where the tomatoes are good.

Birre di strada: street beers, beers drunk in the street between bars.

I love this line in the book: "These things take time," I assure him in that irritating way that people with no idea tend to do.

The sommelier and he become friends and he slowly begins to learn wine. One must know about wines; to live it is indispensable.

He says wine is like literature: you'll never read everything. Just concentrate on appreciating the classics.

In France, a common expression for a pretty girl is un avion de chasse, a fighter jet.