I want that job

You know, my mom and I spent the weekend in Paris.  Walking and drinking wine and eating and more walking.  No schedules or children.  Just whatever we felt like doing. 

And speaking of.

Sunday evening, dinner time.  7th arrondissement.  I dare you to try to find a restaurant that's open.  

Anyway, we ended up in a perfectly acceptable brasserie.  Tomato and mozzarella salad to begin with, warm goat cheese and cured ham salad, pear tart for dessert.  Médoc to drink.  

Anyway, still not the important part.  That part was the guy, the owner of the brasserie.  I'm not kidding, the man stood, kind of hunched, over the cash register the whole time we were there.  We, of course, had an apéritif to start with, before the food and the wine.  And coffee after the dessert.  So we'll say we spent a couple of hours there.  

He hunched over the cash. Took people's money.  Barked out orders.  Delegated in the true sense of the word.  He did absolutely nothing, other than the money thing, himself.

50 cl of Médoc to table 10!

Table 6 looks ready for a dessert!

Money's out on table 14!

In the meantime, there was definite hustle and bustle because it was the only damn restaurant open in the 7th on Sunday evening.  So the staff hustled and bustled while Monsieur oversaw.