On Saturday afternoon, I had a very pleasant experience. I went to buy a bottle of wine to take to the dinner party I had been invited to that evening. However, instead of just going to the supermarket, choosing a decent-looking bottle from a head-spinning choice of hundreds, then queuing for twenty minutes to have it beeped and chucked into a plastic bag… I went to a small wine shop that was a bit like stepping back in time fifty years (or so I would imagine, I’m not that old). For one thing, it was pretty. The floors were wooden, the ceilings high, and rows of beautifully presented bottles stood proudly on shelves that looked solid and reassuring, as though they were there to last, possibly for another century or so. The staff wore long aprons and their unhurried footsteps made gentle tap-tap sounds on the floor as they went about their business.
The really pleasant thing about it all, though, was the service. I was greeted with a polite bonjour, and asked whether I required any assistance. When I explained what I was looking for (nothing exceptionally expensive, I hasten to point out: I could definitely not have been mistaken for a rich wine connoisseur…), the woman serving me showed me a selection of five bottles and described each one in detail, explaining nuances of flavour and grape-type that made me wish that my own wine-related vocabulary contained a slightly bigger stock of adjectives than “lovely!” and “fruity!”.
Anyway, once I’d made my well-informed choice, the lady asked me if I’d like my bottle wrapped.
In true British, “I’m so sorry to bother you…” style, I said something to the effect of “oh, well, only if you have time…”
Of course she had time. She carefully wrapped my bottle in crisp white paper, folding the ends and taping them down. A curly ribbon was then added as a sweet festive touch. Then – beautiful detail coming up – she slipped the wrapped bottle into a little bag and hung it on a tiny brass hook by the till. This was so I wouldn’t have to juggle the bag and my purse and the coins while I paid for my purchase.
Once I’d paid, I unhooked my bag and took leave, to a friendly chorus of “Merci, Madame, et bonne journée!” from the three members of staff.
This experience reminded me of a passage in Philippe Delerm’s book “The First Sip of Beer”, a book whose only purpose is to point out the simple pleasures of life to those of us who don’t always appreciate them. It made me nostalgic for an era when – I imagine – buying something was actually a conscious act to be savoured and not just a race to consume as much as possible, as quickly as possible.
The really pleasant thing about it all, though, was the service. I was greeted with a polite bonjour, and asked whether I required any assistance. When I explained what I was looking for (nothing exceptionally expensive, I hasten to point out: I could definitely not have been mistaken for a rich wine connoisseur…), the woman serving me showed me a selection of five bottles and described each one in detail, explaining nuances of flavour and grape-type that made me wish that my own wine-related vocabulary contained a slightly bigger stock of adjectives than “lovely!” and “fruity!”.
Anyway, once I’d made my well-informed choice, the lady asked me if I’d like my bottle wrapped.
In true British, “I’m so sorry to bother you…” style, I said something to the effect of “oh, well, only if you have time…”
Of course she had time. She carefully wrapped my bottle in crisp white paper, folding the ends and taping them down. A curly ribbon was then added as a sweet festive touch. Then – beautiful detail coming up – she slipped the wrapped bottle into a little bag and hung it on a tiny brass hook by the till. This was so I wouldn’t have to juggle the bag and my purse and the coins while I paid for my purchase.
Once I’d paid, I unhooked my bag and took leave, to a friendly chorus of “Merci, Madame, et bonne journée!” from the three members of staff.
This experience reminded me of a passage in Philippe Delerm’s book “The First Sip of Beer”, a book whose only purpose is to point out the simple pleasures of life to those of us who don’t always appreciate them. It made me nostalgic for an era when – I imagine – buying something was actually a conscious act to be savoured and not just a race to consume as much as possible, as quickly as possible.
In some small way, it’s good for the soul to feel you’re an individual deserving of a bonjour, a conversation and a merci… rather than simply a walking credit card with a faceless human being attached.
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