No Greeting, No Help

The French etiquette rules no one tells you—but everyone expects you to know

This post was inspired by Shelby’s brilliant piece on Franchement called “French Things I Refuse to Get Over.”

When I was a student, I worked at the Eiffel Tower’s information point with a very French colleague, Claude—straight out of central casting: thick accent, permanently unimpressed expression. He flat-out refused to help people who didn’t say bonjour or please. His favorite trick was to interrupt them mid-question with a booming, theatrical “BONJOUR MADAME!” before letting them continue. Bonus points if they attempted French. No greeting, no help.

Where the unspoken rules begin: say “bonjour,” sit down, and never raise your voice.

I always felt bad for the poor tourists he cold-shouldered. But the French part of me? Secretly laughing, just a little bit.

Even now, I’m still learning these quiet codes.

It was a proper lunch with my future in-laws. Everyone was eating slowly, elegantly. Dessert was served in the form of full, ripe, juicy peaches. Each person quietly peeled their peach with a fork and knife. As the cautious and observant person I am, I emulated what everyone else was doing, though I lacked the skills. Almost flicking the peach off my plate, and the table altogether, more than once. Later, my now-husband gently explained that in France, when whole fruit is served at the table, you’re supposed to use a fork and knife, ideally peeling it first.

And yes, this is the kind of feedback only a future husband will give you. A French friend? They’d just clock the faux-pas and move on. Unless you specifically ask. Correction feels impolite. That’s part of the culture, too.

Since then, every summer during fruit à noyau season, I quietly place my peach on the plate, pick up my utensils, and slice with grace. I’ve come to master the art of dignified stone fruit.

But it doesn’t stop at peaches! Pizza? Knife and fork. Hamburgers? Same. Even fries—fries!—are speared one by one like tiny amuse-bouches, sometimes cut into polite little thirds.

At first, I found it comical. Doesn’t a burger taste better eaten with your hands? Just like sushi tastes better with chopsticks? The fork-and-knife method is basically reverse engineering something that was already perfect. You end up chasing a rogue pickle around your plate, hoping it’ll stay still long enough to stab it.

And fries? French fries? Come on!

The only acceptable foods to eat with your hands (but wrapped in paper) are un jambon-beurre and un croissant.

More importantly, I’ve learned that in France, manners aren’t about strict rules. Eating neatly, quietly, politely, it’s a form of elegance, of not making yourself too visible, it’s pudeur. A kind of soft-spoken modesty that runs through French life. You’re not hiding, but you’re also not advertising yourself.

No licking your fingers (so rude it’s pas possible!). No ketchup-coated knuckles. Even the charcuterie board you order over apéro at your local bistro? Fork and knife, please.

Another important rule: French people rarely raise their voices in public. Case in point: my mom recently went to Chez Georges (the one that’s very in with American tourists right now) with a group of Parisians. They were seated next to a loud American table and were unable to speak to one another for the entire meal, not because they didn’t try, but because they refused to raise their own voices in return. That’s the unspoken rule. You wait for a lull, or speak softly amongst yourselves. Shouting over someone else simply isn’t done.

At the heart of it is this: no one wants their life publicly known. What you did last night, how you slept, what the doctor told you, which meds you’re on—these are intimate details, not meant for public consumption. The personal stays personal. That’s the real rule beneath the rules.

There’s even a French expression for when someone’s sharing a little too much: “Et ton caleçon, il est de quelle couleur ?”
Which loosely translates to: Want to tell us the color of your underwear, too? It’s dry, cutting, and the French equivalent of saying TMI, friend.

One rule I learned more recently: always say “Bonjour madame” or “Bonjour monsieur” before any interaction. A plain “bonjour” works, but addressing the person directly really earns you points. It’s like using someone’s first name. It signals respect and connection, and it’s the preferred way to greet someone in any semi-formal context.

Skip it, and you risk being seen as abrupt, or worse, entitled. And don’t forget to say “au revoir madame” or “merci madame” on your way out.

One of the subtler customs I’ve come to enjoy is the wine-pouring code. At dinners, especially at home, it’s expected that men—often the host or a guest—offer to refill everyone’s glasses, especially the women’s.

There’s also a slightly patriarchal element: a woman shouldn’t have to refill her own glass, touch the wine bottle (!) or even ask to be served. The men are expected to notice and serve before glasses empty. (Which can be dangerous for your consumption if you're dining with especially thoughtful guests. Thank you, Samuel, for the hangovers.)

Even more important? You don’t pour wine just for yourself. If you’re reaching for the bottle, it’s understood you’ll offer it around. The whole thing becomes a soft, silent ballet of service. Like synchronized swimming, but with Bourgogne.

Generally speaking, you never help yourself to anything without offering it to others first.

And then there are the other small rules I’ve learned with a side of cringe:

• No buttering full slices of bread unless it’s une tartine for breakfast. Butter is not typically served with la corbeille de pain when dining out. You will receive butter if you’ve ordered un plateau de fruits de mer, and maybe with le plateau de fromage, but not always.

• Cheese etiquette is sacred. No fingers, no “nose stealing,” (le coeur of the cheese is the best part, and what makes you entitled to have it over anyone else?!) and once it’s on your plate, fork and knife, please.

• Hands on the table. Not in your lap. Ever. We don’t know what you’re doing down there!

• Don’t talk to babies you don’t know. Unless you're a chic older woman with good instincts, best to admire quietly from afar.

• Never interrupt, even to agree. In France, all interruptions are considered impolite.

• Say hello to the room. In waiting areas, walk in and greet with a soft “Bonjour mesdames et messieurs.” Like a polite little announcement of your existence.

Rules are meant to be broken. And thankfully, the French know that other cultures don’t always operate under the same codes. But they will be very appreciative (silently, mostly) when you make the effort to concede to their etiquette and manners. In French culture, it’s a way of showing respect. And respect is very important here.

Because in the end, good manners are just a form of care. Whether you're sharing a meal or asking for directions at the Eiffel Tower.

More on this theme?
If decoding French quirks is your thing, you’ll love this one: 14 Hilarious French Expressions That Will Make You Giggle. Because even the most elegant culture has its linguistic oddballs.

Coming next week in the French Enough? series: Why French women don’t get Botox
We’ll dive into the codes of aging, beauty, and self-presentation in a country where discretion is the ultimate luxury. Make sure to subscribe so you don’t miss it.