Paris Do, Paris Don't

#73 DON’T Be Naughty

Nothing says Christmas quite like a little corporal punishment. The French have a special Yuletide character that not only spreads Christmas joy but also quite literally beats it into people. I’m talking about the dear French Christmas cohort, Père Fouettard. While Anglo-Saxons believe that naughty chilluns deserve an innocuous lump of coal from Santa, the French believe Santa flies around accompanied by a homicidal sadomasochist with a tinge of pedophilia named Père Fouettard who gives naughty children a whipping if they don’t behave. Legend has it that Ol’ Père Fouettard drugged some schoolboys slit their throats then chopped them into pieces and stewed them in a barrel until a kinder Père Noël found the boy’s bodies and forced the repentant Fouettard into a life of x-mas servitude. Under Père Noël’s command, Fouettard is armed with a cat o’ nine tails and must beat the naughty out of brats from Christmas last. I’m sure this is both a constructive and therapeutic outlet for this psychopath, who knew St. Nick was so New Age?! I don’t know about you, but this tradition certainly would’ve scared the naughty right out of me; no wonder the French are so polite, quiet and well behaved, they were raised believing a homicidal maniac was just waiting to drop down their chimney and beat the crap out of them. The moral of the story is: if you find yourself in France during the holiday season, you better watch out, because Santa Claus +1 is coming to town.

fun fact: did I mention he usual appears in blackface next to Santa during Christmas festivities.

#72 DON’T Mexican

While there are a lot of things in Paris to gripe about, expats just love to whine about how much they miss Mexican food. However, expats need to shut their enchilada holes and realize that Parisians don’t do Mexican food (I’m sorry but cactus/candelaria/mexi&co just don’t cut it), so stop trying to make it happen here. There are a few things inherently wrong with Mexican cuisine for the French: strike one is it lacks butter but demands deep frying, strike two is that corn is the staple, and the final nail in the cuisine coffin is that it’s spicy, the French palate is so weak that even ketchup makes their eyes water. Parisians also hate eating with their hands—whether it be dipping chips, holding a huge drippy taco, tostada, fajita, taquito—Dios mio, keep it at a fourchette’s length! There’s simply nothing polite about the consumption of a monster california super mega grande carne burrito, the closest Parisians come to such savagery is an elegantly folded crepe with a three filling limit. You wouldn’t go to Guadalajara and expect to find a perfect tradition, so why would you reckon the reverse. If you want Mexican food go to Mexico because the French Mexican’t.

#69 DON’T de Flore

Every travel book will tell you to stop, drop, and roll out your euros at the famous Café de Flore. I won’t because it’s a Don’t. Frozen food is great and all, but when it comes in the form of a greasy croque monsieur that will set you back 18 euros, no thanks. Sure it has ‘history’ and is pretty inside, but so are 89% of any given corner cafes in Paris. You can gage the level of meh this cafe provokes by the ¾ eyeroll a Parisian will give you upon hearing the words de Flore escape your lips. But beware; Parisians will not directly discourage your enthusiasm because they rely on places such as de Flore to keep your touristy self out of all the good cafes—classic Parisian decoy. So if you want to pay for overpriced food and drinks and watch hordes of tourist walk by, then by all means I suggest you go and enjoy all Cafe du Flore has to offer. Otherwise, be brave, walk a block in any direction and find another terrace table to be Parisian at.

#64 DON’T Les Halles

Emile Zola immortalized the great Les Halles Parisian food market in his famous The Belly of Paris. His vivid descriptions of cheese, meat, flowers and ragamuffins have all contributed to Paris’ reputation as the gastronomic center of the universe. 150 years later, the only thing that remains of this once gluttonous mecca are a few abandoned construction sights, a lot of fecal matter (of the human variety), some pan handlers, a McDonald’s, a souvenir vendor or two, and that’s about it. If Zola were around now, he would probably call it The Rectum of Paris, and rightly so, as nothing but waste remains of its once rich commercial history. Go left or right of center and find the weekly neighborhood markets to fulfill your food fantasies but don’t get lost in Les Halles.

#55 DON’T Moulin Rouge

You all saw Moulin Rouge, listened to Lady Marmalade and fantasized about paying homage to that infamous red windmill haunt of bohemians and cancan girls. Today if you venture to Pigalle, I regret to inform you that your Toulouse-Lautrec green fairy dreams are about to be crushed by a neon sign wave of cheesy, sleazy, raunchy sex clubs. So don’t sully your pristine Baz Luhrmann fantasies with the tacky Parisian reality. The thing is, it isn’t even very good at being sleazy (you would be more wowed by the red light districts of Amsterdam, Tijuana or even Miami), you will be overwhelmed by how underwhelming it all is. Moral of the story: if you ever do venture to the edge of the 9eme, just grab your poppers and make like the wind—not the windmill.