How Parisian Cops Eat

I've always wondered what cops munch on all day. How do they occupy their time between two shifts, not to mention those long hours patrolling the streets, often with no action? I've always wanted to know what they eat to be able to bear that kind of monotony. So I decided to ask them directly by chatting with a few while they're on duty or tagging along while they have a meal. It's an opportunity to ask them a few questions about their food routines, and while I'm at it, get a few restaurant recommendations. I figured city cops must know their neighborhood like no one else—especially the best places to grab a quick bite that's inexpensive, but wholly satisfying. I had this image of greasy doughnut eaters in caps somewhere in my mind—primarily because of all the old American police films I've watched. Given France's reputation when it comes to gastronomy, however, I assumed French cops must be the polar opposite from the ones across the pond.

I quickly realized that eating like a cop is, in fact, pretty basic stuff. Lunchtime for our guardians of the peace largely revolves around three options: eating on the go, eating lots of sandwiches, or staying in the office and heating up a Tupperware of last night's dinner.

I went from station to station gathering research during meal time. The more I hung out with them, the more I realized that food is something they take seriously, even though "it's getting harder and harder to make the time for yourself and sit down for a real meal," one of them commented.

For Parisian cops, lunch isn't just a time to fill your belly. When they have the time, it's an opportunity to take a salutary break. It's a moment to connect with the community, check in with local restaurant owners, or simply take a "mental and physical break" from what can often be a tedious workday.

The first day, I took the bus to the main police station in the 18th arrondissement of Paris, on rue de Clignancourt. I thought I'd find a greater density of cops there—and I was right. The place was teeming with cops and blue, white, and red cars reading "Police Nationale." In the street, police vehicles rolled in slowly across the concrete, returning from duty. For others, work called, and they backed out in a hurry with sirens blaring. To be honest, I'd chosen this station in particular because of its surroundings, where food options abound. There are several boulangeries that "offer quick, efficient provisions," tells me one officer in front of the station. The neighborhood is also known for its many African restaurants.

Approaching cops turned out to be slightly more complicated than I'd planned. After the November 13th attacks, officers have become even more paranoid, and were reluctant to give me some of their time. As a result, I found myself on the receiving end of gentle but firm warnings such as: "I don't have any time to waste on an article about food. We're here to protect the people," and "Do you have the authorization to take a picture of me? Otherwise, it's illegal." My first impression was that, despite the altruistic demeanor required by the profession, the membrane of the police force is a hard one to penetrate. In their everyday lives, officers keep their distance from civilians, and their attitude is rather cold and distrusting.

After an hour, I met two cops heading to an African restaurant. They eventually allowed me to accompany them, so long as I didn't take any photos. I had no objections—it was better than nothing. We made our way to a little place near their station. Before starting their afternoon shift, which was bound to "spill over late into the evening," these two co-workers needed to refuel. We sat down, just the three of us. It was 3 PM. "We like coming here when there aren't too many people," said one of them before elaborating: "We like to be discreet. We came here for four reasons. Number one, we have a little time on our hands today. Two, it's cheap. Three, it allows us to check in with the owners and the servers, and to talk about what's going on in the neighborhood. And lastly, here, portions are generous and one meal is enough to hold us over for many hours." The waitress came to take our order and the two men in uniform ordered the same thing: braised chicken in rougail sauce and a Youki (a kind of African Coca-Cola). I trusted their judgment and ordered the same thing—after all, they are regulars.

After we ordered, the owners came to shake our hands and chatted up the cops. The officers easily took on this social role—the discussion was like an easygoing good cop/bad cop interrogation, except here, both played the good cop. They nodded as the owners answered, and casually followed up with further questions. They ate quickly, as if pressed for time. Their black uniforms were in sharp contrast with the establishment's lively color scheme. Towards the end of the meal, a phone rang: Duty called. "Shit, we can't even savor a real meal these days," one of them cried out. "Today is better than usual, we almost got to finish our plate," explained the other. I asked if I could keep tagging along, but they refused. They quickly emptied their glasses and left. I took a picture of their dishes and hurried out of there.

Like this officer of the peace, the cops that patrol tourist areas on bikes don't have much time to refuel either. This is what I discovered a few days later in Montmartre, where I bumped into a few officers arresting a drug dealer. I watched them as they called for four-wheeled backup, then I posted up near them. Since they'd just had an eventful few minutes, they seemed more eager to chat. According to them, Montmartre is the "worst place to work as a police officer." The youngest among them elaborates: "The food is bad, and expensive to boot, and protecting tourists is an interminable task." Since it was 1 PM, I asked him if he was going to be on break soon. "We don't get a break. We brought a packed lunch that we ate at the station before getting called over. We don't have time to sit down in a restaurant. We'll sometimes get a sandwich if the day goes long, but that's it. The next big meal we have will be at home."

I got the same story from cops on bikes around Trocadéro : "When we're a team of three, like today, one of us goes to get sandwiches and we eat here while surveilling the area. Most of the time, we patrol while we eat," asserts one of the officers on two wheels. "When we have a little time, we usually sit down and eat something quick and filling, to break up the day a bit. It's either a small, inexpensive restaurant that we know well, or a meal at the station. But personally, I like talking with restaurant owners to find out what's going on in the neighborhood. In certain instances, those connections can be beneficial. It's part of our job," explains another. It was starting to rain, and they pedaled away to patrol further down.

The next day around 4 PM, I headed to the police station at 10 Rue Pierre Lescot, in the 1st arrondissement. I was starving, so I went to the closest station near me. I got lucky and bumped into the only friendly cop around—an officer in his 50s from Toulouse. He was on duty and accepted that I accompany him for a meal on the run—which, for cops on patrol, means eating with your hands, standing up. He knew a boulangerie around the corner, which he proudly described as "the best in the neighborhood," and onward we went. It was close to 6 PM, and so this was some kind of pre-dinner snack. "When you're on duty, you have to eat quickly, so sandwiches are ideal. You need your energy; it's not easy standing up and walking around all day, especially when it's cold like today," he began. We leaned on a wall and dug in. It was already dark out, and there were more and more people in the street, racing home. He continued: "Since the shootings, we're working double, mentally, and physically. I'm making the rounds right now, and breaks like this are essential."

Apparently, the classic sandwich he held in his hands (butter, ham, pickles) satisfied his hunger. As he started on the second half, he hit the road again—he had to keep going. "Eating on the go allows us to remain productive," he said. Basically, it's like an employee eating at his desk during his lunch break because he's drowning in work. "We have the best food in the world here in France, and here I am eating sandwiches six times a week. It's almost an obligation when you work long shifts," he lamented, walking away.

A few days later, I met a group of four cops—three men and a woman—who were making the rounds between Barbès and the Sacré-Cœur. They let me follow them around, but "without bothering them or getting in their way, and no photos." I shadowed them, keeping a slight distance. Forty five minutes passed and nothing happened. Attempts at conversation were at first futile, then turned into long-winded spiels. Then, all of a sudden, the clock struck 2 PM and everyone was hungry. "Should we go eat?" asked one of them. He added, "I was thinking about going up the Boulevard Rochechouart because I don't feel like eating around la Goutte d'Or. The food is nasty. But going up the hill isn't great either because everything is overpriced up there." "So it's either Flunch or the kebab place near Anvers," the female cop jumped in, sure of herself. A decision was made: We headed to the "best kebab place around."

Once we got there, I chatted with the owner of the kebab place where cops are clearly regulars. "Many police officers come here for my kebabs, and many come when they're off duty—though the majority of my customers are tourists, students, and locals," he explained. "I'm starting to recognize the off-duty cops. They're the ones who talk to me while they're eating. Usually, it's small talk about the neighborhood, new businesses, the rise of dealers in the area…There's a high school nearby and several dealers posted up around here recently to sell their goods." He then admitted to a certain friendship with some of the cops: "I've become close to a few of them and now they bring their colleagues." His shop is in a good location; his food is hearty and ready in a flash—the perfect recipe for cops in a rush. "They generally come in the afternoon, or in the evening around 10 PM when they're working late. They come here to chat, probably because I'm the best and the cheapest in the area. We're even on TripAdvisor and we have 4.5 stars," he concludes, with a big smile on his face.

See more of Félix's work at felixmacherez.com. This article originally appeared on MUNCHIES France.