Riding Along with the Food Couriers of Paris

"It's ringing—I've got to run to Little Baobei and be there by 7:33 PM. Can you keep up?" Half a second later, Mozzarella (a made-up nickname) is already several paces ahead, perched atop his fixie. It's 7:25, and this young courier is just starting his shift. He took a job with Take Eat Easy in late 2015, meaning that his "career" beginnings coincided with the widespread emergence of new delivery services that marry food and tech—first in Paris, then in other large French cities.

After making its first arrival in France in October 2014, the Belgian company Take Eat Easy was quickly followed by English company Deliveroo in April 2015. A month later, the Germans were hot on their heels with Foodora. More recently, new contestants have gotten into the game, such as PopChef and FoodChéri, though they actually send out meals from their own centers. Whatever the case, all these companies respond to a similar demand: the desire to eat well without cooking or leaving the house. They also all promise quick delivery (between 20 and 40 minutes) and fun interfaces to help you place your order.

This competition on the web also plays itself out on the street. Tonight, Mozzarella gets to his restaurant on time, and leans his bike against one that belongs to a Foodora delivery guy. When you consider the numbers—a flock of 70 delivery men in Paris for FoodChéri, up to 1,200 across France for Take Eat Easy, 400 Parisians for PopChef, and 500 for Foodora—the likelihood of one person bumping into another is high. One "good evening" isn't answered, a "fuck" is jokingly tossed towards another delivery guy who's struggling. All in all, the interactions tonight aren't exactly cordial.

As a second-year intern, Mozzarella manages to treat both medical patients and impatient customers. "Rather than going for a bike ride in Longchamp, I do so right here in Paris," he explains, before providing some nuance: "It's obviously much harder when there's a climb. It's a bird's flight distance that is calculated on the app, so you sometimes have to go across the Butte Montmartre in less than four minutes, to deliver, say, from the town hall of the 18th arrondissement all the way to Pigalle. But that's also the challenge: You never know where the next race will take you, or what route you'll take."

In Paris, those we now know as "food-bikers" converge, for the most part, near the Place de la République. They form a group at the corner of the Boulevard de Magenta. Most Take Eat Easy delivery guys wait here during lunch and dinner times with their bikes, chatting away, waiting for the first order—and they head back here after their shift to get drinks.

Other meeting points in the capital include the Place de la Bourse, Gare du Nord, Gare Saint-Lazare, and La Défense. Elsewhere, it's "Place du Commerce in Nantes, Place Fernand Lafargue in Bordeaux, and Place du Capitole in Toulouse," lists off Matthieu Birach, Manager France of Take Eat Easy. These meeting points were not chosen at random. They actually represent anchor points in the "recommended coverage zones" that these different delivery companies outline for their delivery personnel. Boris Mittermüller, the founder of Foodora, confirms this: "We try to position our runners in strategic locations during their service."

For PopChef and FoodChéri, which both directly prepare the meals they serve customers, things aren't as complicated. The meeting points are directly inside their kitchen establishments. "We have relay points where our delivery guys can meet up, grab a coffee, and wait for the next deliveries," points out François Raynaud de Fitte, one of PopChef's co-founders. For Benjamin Gélabert, a former messenger who is now a hub and fleet manager at FoodChéri, the starting point is an excuse to get together "around a delicious dessert before the shift." He adds: "I also use that time to make a few small repairs."

This Wednesday, at lunchtime, there are already about 15 bikers assembled at Place de la République, a number that grows once Jeff arrives in a hurry, with bicycle troubles: "I decided to do a little detour to come here. I knew I'd find someone who could lend me an Allen key." In no time, food runner Nicolas offers his help with a smile.

It becomes quickly evident that mutual aid is the cornerstone of the operation. Romain, who has been making deliveries since April 2014, is very attached to this spirit of solidarity: "If a taxi or car is messing with a courier, I'll always defend him, no matter what—even if he's in the wrong." Édouard, who works at PopChef to help out a friend who needed messengers, goes into technical detail: "Help happens at every level, from lending an emergency air tube, to legal advice in the event of an accident, to selling a used bike or parts."

What also bonds messengers together is that they face the same troubles. The weather, for example, can quickly complicate a shift. "When it's really hot, you suffocate, and when it rains, the ground gets slippery. Those are the days you realize…You get home looking disgusting, covered in soot, as though you're coming back from the mine," explains Antoine, a freelance graphic designer and part-time delivery man. Speaking of pollution, "Biking on peak days is the equivalent of smoking a carton of cigarettes. Sometimes I cough for three days straight after a day like that, with throat aches, congested sinuses—the whole cancerous package." As for the dangers of the road, Antoine knows them well: "It's hard, especially when you hear about friends who got hit. Cars and pedestrians are the most dangerous. Vigilance and foresight are your best means of protection. And the obligatory helmet, too."

Some burn on adrenaline: "Finding the best routes, fitting into small spaces, passing cars in a flash…I get my dose at each shift," laughs Benoit. That kind of dope replaces weed and alcohol: "This job gets you high in ten minutes," asserts Romain, who also debunks the myth of the messenger who gets involved with his customer: "The girls that are single are all chicken."

Messengers are each motivated by different things. For some, it's a way of escaping unemployment. For others, who even work with different delivery companies simultaneously, the job can quickly turn into an obsession. "I did it in addition to my studies, whenever my schedule permitted, which is no longer the case today," says Édouard. "My internship is right next to my delivery zone, so it's totally compatible," underlines Foodora's Louis. Freelancers sometimes take on deliveries alongside their other work. For example, for Antoine and Arthur, social media strategists for an ad agency, deliveries are a side gig. But for Benoit, who produces advertising comps one day a week, it's the main source of his income.

A former semi-professional soccer player, he traded in the grass for concrete, and also works at Foodora. "I've made deliveries to several ministries, YouTube, DailyMotion, Netflix, LCP, and the American Embassy, so they have to search you—it's pretty funny!" he recalls, amused. "I know one of our guys made a deliver to Trapp, the Paris Saint-Germain goalie!" he adds. And how does he feel about this auto-entrepreneur status, forced to look into employment at delivery startups? He says this doesn't bother him, claiming that he can gross up to 2,700 euros a month. "What I like is the freedom. I'm in control of my schedule!"

Yet the inherent insecurity of the system tends to create a competitive atmosphere based on performance, and not everyone sees through rose-colored glasses. This is Antoine's position: "This is convenient, but crazy stressful. It's really only because I'm 28 and single." In a way, the scheduling freedom is only an illusion, since one's availability must coincide with the two daily shift periods (from 11 AM to 3 PM, and/or from 7 to 11 PM). Alice, who's been making deliveries since February 2016, mentions that her employer also requires her to be available at least three nights a week.

In terms of gender, delivery guys are generally, well…guys. The ratio is roughly 80 to 90 percent male, no matter the company. While the milieu is very masculine, the women who are involved command respect: "Honestly, I've been pretty impressed by the few girls I've seen working for Take Eat Easy," says Mozzarella. Alice says she hasn't experienced too much machismo: "Day to day, my colleagues are kind and respectful. Except maybe that one time, during the initial training, when all the guys were basically measuring their dick size, comparing their bikes."

So what unites these delivery enthusiasts and creates such a community? Some say they're passionate about food, while others clearly hate it, especially when it comes to delivering pizzas, soups, and milkshakes. All these satellite motivations actually orbit around a single planet: the passion for cycling.

This passion manifests itself outside delivery hours. In Paris, die-hard enthusiasts get together at bike shops like La Bicyclette, Gepetto et Vélos or the café-workshops and boutiques La Chouette and Steel Cyclewear & Coffeeshop. In Lyon, it's Bicycletterie or Urban Fixie. Certain bars have also transformed into headquarters, like Penty and Chez Rachid, the respective terrains of groups like Paris Chill Racing or Ride Du Mercredi. When they aren't racing through a red light, messengers sometimes enter more official competitions. There are Alleycats, wild races that consist of hitting various checkpoints in record time. The fact that Paris is the next chosen location for the next World Championships.) is additional evidence of enthusiasm for the sport. And delivery companies are all over it: Foodora sponsors an Alleycat team in Lyon, and FoodChéri intends to align itself with the World Championships in Paris.

Among the food-bikers we met, it's mainly that spirit of competition and passion for cycling that seems to keep them going. Their eyes light up as soon as the subject is brought up: "What I was immediately drawn to is the idea of getting paid to ride," admits Édouard. "I'm obsessed. I have several bikes; most of them I assembled myself." In fact, the most passionate cyclists are the ones who feel like they belong to a community. Édouard elaborates: "I really feel like I'm part of a culture. It's ultra-codified; it has its own language. You can recognize someone in the street based on their bike, which you might have seen in a forum, for example. You can immediately tell, based on the setup, whether the owner knows what they're doing, depending on the frame, the parts they used, the assembly, etc…"

Nonetheless, the community can be somewhat closed off. On social networks, food-bikers automatically gain access to their company's private Facebook groups—but you have to prove yourself in order to be invited into other, more secret groups.

We're not sure that those who are less invested—read: only doing it for the money—easily find their place. And yet they, too, are loaded like mules, zipping through Paris streets on their mountain bike, or worse, on a Vélib.