Oh no, it's that time of year again when French tourism chiefs get stroppy waiters and shopkeepers to sign contracts saying they'll smile more and be nicer to foreigners. This year's marketing slogan is: 'In France the smile comes from the heart.'
In what's officially known as the Bonjour campaign - now in its eighth year - hoteliers, restaurateurs and visitor attractions are being asked to make a commitment to good service and get away from the offhand and aloof reputation plaguing the country.
But why bother?
Every time you go to France, there's no avoiding the 'service with a snarl' syndrome. At Toulouse airport last year, I ordered a Diet Coke in my worst O-level French. The Coke that arrived was a sugar-laden normal one and I asked the waiter to change it for a low-cal variety.
The waiter told me it was Diet Coke and that I was completely mistaken. Eventually after much hand-waving and arguing he conceded that it wasn't Diet Coke and 'it was the machine's fault'. He refused to change it, charged the full whack and added a hefty service charge.
When I told an English friend who lives in France about the experience she said British people get stroppy service because they don't know how to communicate with the French. 'It irritates them the way you don't try to speak French. If you don't say merci followed by a Monsieur you are being rude and if you say tu instead of vous they won't come back to your table.'
I probably failed on all three counts. Which made me wonder: shouldn't the French tourism chiefs stop this corny smiling-from-the-heart marketing nonsense?
If we want good service, shouldn't we just make a bit more effort on the language front? Dust down the phrasebook and buy a pocket dictionary?
Breakthrough at last! The message is getting through to some hotels that we women want our room-service breakfast delivered by another woman, not an acne-ridden bloke in pinstripes marching into the room. I always feel exposed, however much I cover up. The less than attractive sight of me at 8am should be reserved for husband and the closest of relatives.
On a recent trip to the Hotel de la Cité in Carcassonne, France, I rushed about the room bleary-eyed, trying to find a big towel to cover up. I positioned myself behind the door and strained my neck around to ask the waiter to dump the tray at my feet from where I would snatch it after he'd disappeared. Instead, my visitor was a waitress (a smiling one at that - perhaps she'd been on the smile-from-the-heart course?). What a relief!
