A certain time of year, a certain part of France and and you just know you're going to see it.
This year, I have first spotted it in St Raphaël. It's that juxtaposition of utterly distinct types of people wandering along the seafront: those in light summer clothes, their skin becoming pink (if it started off as white) and those wrapped up in multiple layers to insulate against the bitter cold of spring.
People dwelling in these parts recognise warm weather only when blazing sunshine arrives. Visitors from the north, that is northern France or more northern parts of Europe generally, like to soak up whatever rays come their way.
There is another familiar site on Mediterranean seafronts starting at or around Easter: restaurant terraces full of people engaged in agonising waits for service.
I have said before that French businesses get away with recruiting as few employees as they dare, a product of the worker-friendly labour laws and high associated costs of having staff on the books.
The consequence is that you can sit for an age, as we did at the Excelsior in St Raphaël, for each step of the meal: a) first visit from waiter, with menus 2) arrival of food 3) supply of bread or carafe of water 4) presentation and settlement of bill. Our visit added two optional extras to the process of delay. The mustard came halfway through the main course but the carafe of wine had been plonked on the table so long before the meal, with no trace of shade, that little was actually left by the time we started to eat.
"Trouble is, everyone arrives at the same time," a waitress was heard to say. That seemed a fairly accurate description of what it means to run a restaurant that offers lunch at lunchtime.
In fact, the meal was basic but pretty good, tartare of beef from the à la carte menu and, as plat du jour, a tasty mixed grill. But I cannot help thinking a restaurateur who sat down and did the sums would hire one or two more bodies and sell a lot more. As it is, my guess is that while some people may order modestly because they wish to eat less, others do so because they're terrified of being stuck there for the whole day.
If that was an example of slow food, not quite what the Slow Food people had in mind, we were to experience fast food, again not as intended by McDo and the rest, at the other end of Provence.
Over in St Rémy, the attractive little town once owned by the ruling Grimaldis of Monaco, a table had been booked at the intriguing Restaurant Xa, founded by Xavier and Martine, passionate champions of exotic eastern locations and the influences their visits brought to their own cuisine.
Xavier died on one of those trips but Martine and their daughter, Mélanie, keep the flag flying in the 1930s ambiance of their restaurant on the Boulevard Mirabeau.
Perhaps we chose our day - Sunday, for lunch - unwisely. But in sharp contrast to the St Raphaël experience, we were in and out in about an hour despite opting for the three-course meal. Service was correct but a little formal; when one of us identified Varanasi in an image displayed on the wall, there was perfunctory confirmation but no follow-up conversation.
The food, again, was correct. It was also reasonably priced. Our main courses were a beef curry and a seafood gratin. With 50cl of a pleasant rosé, we paid €72 euros, but left feeling a little disappointed with our visit.
But it's a lovely town, with interesting winding lanes, art exhibitions, a permanent Van Gogh museum and the chance to visit the old sanitorium where he lived the last anguished year of his short life.
Maybe next time, we'll have a more relaxed, less rushed meal chez Xa. I have seen other references about its conviviality and cosiness, and feel sure we were just unlucky.
I wouldn't mind betting, also, that other diners at the Excelsior in Saint Raphaël have left perfectly satisfied with the pace and quality of the service. As for me, well the skin on the hairless expanses of my head has recovered nicely after going pink in the sun.
* Thanks to Johan Seland's Flickr pages for the image from St Raphaël
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