Edward Chisholm’s memoir of his time as a waiter in Paris goes below the surface of the city and right into its glorious underbelly.
He inhabits a world of inhuman hours, snatched sleep and dive bars; he scrapes by on coffee, bread and cigarettes, with a wage so low he’s fighting colleagues for tips. These colleagues include thieves, ex-Legionnaires, paperless immigrants, wannabe actors and drug dealers, and are the closest thing to family he’s got. It’s physically demanding, frequently humiliating and incredibly competitive. But it doesn’t matter because he’s in Paris, and there is nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
‘A Dickensian tale of a young man’s trial by fire in a French bistro gives rise to biting commentary on Parisian culture in Chisholm’s intoxicating debut.’ Publisher’s Weekly
All Washed Up
Many years ago, when I was in my early twenties, I lived in Copenhagen where I was registered with the Foreign Ministry as correspondent for The Times. But I made my living washing dishes. The paper...
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