Q is for Queue
This newsletter was meant to be apt and timely, discussing The Queue, the queue that ended all queues, smoothly transitioning into a brag about my new job but the new job has been busy and I have been busy and so this commentary about Queue and Queen is most likely going to seem two to three weeks out of date.
Q being for Queue seems obvious but it took me a while to get to, crawling through Q for Quebec, Quesadilla, Quai, Quinoa, searching for restaurants whose name began with Q and then the spectacular presentation of Britishness started to materialise. It is an amusing stereotype of British people that we love to queue but it’s a stereotype that is so well-founded and something that we are so proud of. Complaining (silently) when visiting other countries whose queuing etiquette isn’t up to scratch, eyeing daggers at someone who cuts in, you only have to look at the Holly and Phil reaction vs David Beckham pride to see how seriously we take a queue (peak British pop-culture).
My reaction to the death of the Queen has been relatively similar to that of my peers (give or take a few), feeling sad for a family in mourning but recognising the problematic touch-points of said family. I was in London the day on which she passed and it was fascinating to gauge a national reaction from within. I, however, didn’t visit Buckingham Palace and was quite freaked out by the innumerable electronic screens around the city displaying a photograph of her maj. I came back home to Paris a few days later and except for gratefully accepting the condolences of Frenchies, didn’t think much more about it, until the queue started to appear.
Truthfully I felt hooked to the feeling of camaraderie and weird community spirit that seemingly did not exist a few days prior. I watched interviews of queue joiners, I gasped regularly as the live BBC map would be updated showing the winding snake stretching down to Southwark Park. The longest wait was over 24 hours, showing extreme patience / stubbornness. There was a moment where I felt a slight pang of FOMO for the queue that we’ve been training for our whole lives but luckily the Internet was on hand to fill in the gaps for me. Below are a few of my favourite Queue quips and one fantastic (G)Q piece. The best thing to come out of the queue, however, was the woman who said it was the best experience of her life, topping the birth of her two children, who she proceeds to name and wave at them through the telly.
The Queue got me thinking about queuing in general and considering what or whom I would be willing to queue for 24 hours for and to be honest, the list is very small. Give or take a few dead musicians, I think it’d be a hard task to find an individual that I’d be willing to stand in line that long for. When it comes to restaurants however, I am perfectly happy to wait my allotted 60+ minutes for a table.
Walk-in only restaurants have seemingly become a bit of a hype in the UK recently but the concept of the queue, notably in Bouillon styles restaurants in Paris has existed since the late 1800s. This old-school style of establishment is now known for its winding queues and very cheap but dece quality dishes, walk past a Bouillon every night of the week, rain or shine, and you’ll see a greedy gang shuffling towards the warming entrance. Cheap, cheerful, and not always charming, this clique of restaurants has found a near perfect balance of quality, quantity, and queue.
My only qualm with Pigalle in particular also happens to be one of my favourite French waiter anecdotes. A few years ago, I was dining with some friends on their last night in the city. Bouillon Pigalle, having served them well over their yearlong Erasmus exchange, was the location for the farewell feast. A Jeraboam of (good!) wine for 40 euros — too cheap to pass on. To start, I opted for the salmon rillettes as I always do, there were a few bone marrows flying around and two plates of œufs mayonnaise. After our starters had been cleared, one friend started to feel a bit hot and took herself out for some air. Another friend swiftly after started to turn a shade of pistachio… The two œufs mayonnaise eaters had gone speedily down with a case of food poisoning. Their last night in Paris brought abruptly to a halt humpty-dumpty style.
The rest of us, clearly unperturbed by the prospect, carried on with our meal, but made a quick signal to the maître d’ to let him know what had happened. In the most polite French we could muster, we implied that our friends’ simultaneous stomach ache was seemingly thanks to the egg mayo. The maître d’, stern-faced, turned and pointed to the wall. A adornment of certificates.
“Nous, nous avons le prix de la meilleure œufs mayonnaise à Paris depuis cinq ans.”
“We have won the prize for the best egg mayonnaise in Paris for the last five years.”
And on that gloat he walked off, leaving us laughing in the face of hilarious hypocrisy and a reminder that, when in Paris, the customer is never right.
Shopping list for you - Queue variety
Things worthy of the queue
Bouillon Pigalle and Republique - just avoid the egg mayo
The queue at the end of market day at Marché Bastille that allows you to take home, for free, the vegetables that weren’t sold on the day. Thrifty and enviro !
Brag incoming - the queue at the restaurant I am now a chef at — Gramme. Come early on a weekday morning to avoid the queue and I will wave at you from the open kitchen. 86 Rue des Archives
London edition, I queued quite unwillingly for a Full English breakfast at Regency Cafe but it is now on the list for top 3 reasons to go to London. 17-19 Regency Street, Pimlico