A waiting game
FRANCE: The day I represented my country in the Great Waiters' Race of Paris
To newcomers, welcome. I’m Grant and this is my log of days and years spent as a vagabond. To returning readers, good to see you again.
It’s back: the Paris Waiters’ Race. Hundreds of hospitality workers dressed in their finest livery got to tread along 2 kilometres of cobbled streets in the city’s Le Marais district in a tradition dating back to 1914. This year they carried a tray with croissant, water and cafe. The event has been in hiatus for more than a decade due to a lack of sponsors. But this was not the case in the late 1980s. Oh no, far from it dear readers.
In a quest for global expansion, back then the big French brewer, Kronenbourg, conducted a series of qualifying waiters’ races around the world to promote its beer. Japan, Canada, Scandinavia, South Africa and Australia hosted such an event. In Sydney, in late 1987, I turned up as part of a team from the catering company I was working for at the time, and won the bloody thing.
Yes, dear reader, I won. Mind you, I was not first across the line after traversing a winding 2.5 kilometre course through Sydney’s Domain. But according to the judges, I was the first to finish with all the contents of my tray intact and not spilled. And first prize was an all expenses paid trip to Paris to compete in its 1988 event. Scroll to see the pic of me at the starting line with the chief cheerleader of my support crew. More about her later.
It was the Kentucky Derby or Melbourne Cup of Paris. Many streets and boulevards of the Left Bank were closed to traffic to let us run amok. Tokens, like coins, were placed on our tray at several checkpoints along the 7 kilometre course to prove none of us took any shortcuts. I came 23rd (out of about 500 entrants) and scored 6 bottles of local champagne for my troubles. The Japanese competitor, who was staying in the same hotel as myself, came 3rd. His prize was a return trip to Tokyo. I think he managed to swap it for an alternative.
Back in 1988, we were able to run, but contestants this year could only power walk at best. One rule we did share was that carrying the tray in both hands was banned. You could switch from left to right.
I was stunned at the amount of spectators lining the course and media interest in the event. Camera crews on motor bikes, just like the Tour de France, followed us along.
In the lead up to the big day, the mayor of Paris, one Jacques Chirac (later to become President), held a civic reception and breakfast for all the international competitors.
Somehow the Australian embassy got news that a Sydney-sider was competing. A delegation visiting the embassy at the time included a wine importer whose niece was a lead dancer at the Lido; a famous cabaret and nightclub, similar to the Moulin Rouge. He contacted his niece. She contacted a bevy of beauties from the show, and they all turned up to the starting line with Australian flags and stuffed kangaroos to cheer for you-know-who. Suffice to say, their photogenic appeal almost upstaged and delayed the start, as television crews jostled to get B-roll for their evening news bulletins.
And being one of the few English-speaking waiters, many British and North American news agencies wanted interviews and comments in the aftermath. Is this how Lionel Messi might feel (or anyone of that ilk) in a post match interview after scoring the winning goal in a World Cup final? Maybe not, but you get the point.
However, the hullabaloo did not end there, dear readers. A front row seat and back-stage pass to the midnight show at the Lido that night completed an extraordinary day. And this all because I bothered to turn up to that race in Sydney only because I was working a shift that same day just a few hundred metres away.
So, having been ferried to France for free courtesy of Singapore Airlines (a part sponsor of the Sydney race), I took the opportunity to see a bit more of Europe. As you would. I was able to delay the return leg for 12 months. And when that period expired, I declined to return.
The travel bug had bit, and bit badly. Stamps from just about every European country (when it was divided between East and West) with detours to the Middle East, North Africa, and most of Scandinavia, filled my passport. London was my base; a natural home for expat Aussies.
It was 4 years later in 1992 that I eventually returned to Sydney. But the spark had been ignited; the allure of wandering and wondering had taken hold, and it’s fair to say, that flame still burns brightly more than 35 years later.
Documenting those travels, and all that have followed, is what constitutes this Vagabond’s Log. Why not subscribe so you can come along for the ride?
Wow, that sure was a trip of a lifetime! This looks so legend and vintage now!
Very impressive great reading well told. Glad to hear you are coming for MOTHERS DAY