The Crepe Escape

A few summers ago, I worked as a crepemaker and waitress at a Left Bank creperie whose main business consisted of tourists en route to the Notre-Dame cathedral. I was supposed to be one of those adorable Parisian women who twirl wooden dowels over hot metal plates and serve buttery, perfect, diaphanous crepes from a little window to customers on the street. Unfortunately, my learning curve meant that in the first few weeks, instead of such a graceful performance, entire families of expectant American tourists witnessed a flustered, sweating kid from Connecticut drop the dowel, scream, "Goddamit!" and arrange the crumpled mess with her naked fingers in a paper cone with a paltry, apologetic smile. Granted, no one wants their street-crepe fouled up, fondled, or sworn at, but I expected the Americans to greet the realization that the crepe-girl was their countrywoman with more enthusiasm. After all—no awkward language barrier! No impromptu charades to act out "lactose intolerant"! No smug native derision over their mangled accents! It surprised me that even when my crepes emerged up to the Parisian standards, the disappointment from the American clientele remained consistent. When I opened my mouth, children still turned, disgusted, to their parents, as if to say, "You said you were bringing me to France, and you brought me to Cincinnati." The unexpected burden of conversation with the crepe girl exhausted the American tourists: Heavily they would sigh, "So… what is this…some kind of summer job?"

"No, I stole a bike in Brittany, and this is my punishment."

"What do I owe you?"

"Five Euros."

And with that, I had single-handedly shattered their romantic Parisian fantasies. Eventually, I adopted a heavy French accent when speaking English, not out of some impish desire to ham it up but purely to keep my American customers happy. "What's in a beurre-sucre?" they might ask, overarticulating slowly in a near-shout.

"Euuuuuh," I would faux-fumble, rolling my eyes into the back of my head to search for the burdensome English translation. "Ow you say, buttaairrr and suegairrrr," with the "R" firmly lodged in the back of my throat.

In conclusion, if you run a creperie in Paris, don't hire Americans.  And if you're an American looking for crepe-window work in Paris, train at the Lee Strasberg school, not the Cordon Bleu.  Oh, and for anyone looking to make a mean crepe: mix your batter 24 hours in advance.