Bad customer service, attitude, a potential hair perfectly perched on the top of a french fry, and waiting at the end of a line of folks who haven’t seen their feet while standing in years is what happens when I go to McDonalds at home. but in France, I’m far out of my league.
We needed Wifi and cheap food, so of course, Mickey D’s was the place to be. The LOVE I have for the Beef and Potato McMuffin is enormous. But the appreciation and renewal of faith in the customer service employee is much larger. Elena, at the McDonalds next to the Peugot Dealership near the Arc de Triomphe, should win an award.
McDonalds is where pretty people come to work, meet, wine & dine. Amazed. I can’t recall a time I’ve ever seen a McDonald’s employee smile, let alone take their time to help someone because the language barrier is preventing them from ordering quicker than others. The manager, Jean, wore his Hermes belt and skinny dress pants, and Estelle (name I made up because she looks like the singer) had her fresh braids, polished, un-gaudy jewelry, and bright smile. BONJOUR! This is the place families come to dine, friends gather before the club, tourists find free wifi for a few hours. Certainly culture shock. I grew up thinking it was the place where old men play chess in the morning, teen mothers make mcflurries for the morbidly obese, and tourist come in to ask how to get to the highway.
By far, I’d say McDonalds was the greatest part of Paris.