Paris, Peru, Peking, Potrero...Papito

Today at lunch, after a rousing heirloom seed exchange, my friend Kepa and I headed up the hill to the miniature gourmet ghetto at the intersection of Missouri and 18th Street in Potrero Hill.  Our options were not limited.  Mediterranean tapas, upscale French, downscale French, upscale comfort food (Plow), Thai, Korean, pizza...we landed at the relatively new Papitos featuring organic mexican food.  The gimmick is not subtle.  Serve slightly updated, all organic taqueria food and charge 40% more than you can charge down the hill at the corner of 18th and Mission.  I felt like I was back in Mexico City trading value and indigenous atmosphere for printed menus, table service, and arty posters on the walls.  The posters, however, were vintage Air France posters from the 60s advertising the France-Mexico route.  Papito, you see, is part of the network of restaurants that include Chez Papa and Chez Maman on Potrero Hill, Chez Papa Bistro next to the old Mint, and numerous other French restaurants located in every corner of San Francisco.   

The French roots of Papito are not revealed in the menu, the kitchen crew, or the decor, but the wait staff is borrowed directly from Chez Papa's network of French and Quebecois hotties of both genders.  The mostly local, neighborhood clientele notice that the wait staff speak accented English, but most probably don't bother wondering if the accents come from Mazatlan, Madrid, Montreal, or Montepellier.  They just care if their ceviche appetizer comes before their duck confit quesadilla (duck confit? shouldn't that give away the restaurant's French origins?).  

As Kepa and I enjoyed our guacamole and selection of three different salsas (none of them spicy enough for my tastes), the diners next to us ordered their food from the lithe brunette server.  The diners were of Asian persuasion in their fifties or early sixties, chatting enthusiastically with each other in unaccented, Northern Californian English.  When the server asked them for their order, the female guest spoke first in fluid Spanish, "Tacos de camarones, ponga la salsa al lado, y una limonada por favor..."  (Shrimp tacos with salsa on the side and a lemonade please.)  The server flashed her a bewildered look.  "I am sorry, I am French.  I don't speak Spanish. Where are you from?"  Turns out the woman was from Peru.  Spanish was her first language.  

Stereotypes be damned.  Servers in taquerias named Papito who speak with accented English don't speak Spanish.  They sass back to their bosses in French. Asians are not from Asia.  Some are from the Andes and speak Spanish as well as they speak English.  And the bald guy from San Mateo is capable of eavesdropping on everyone.  Capable of it.  And enjoying every moment.