Lebovitz - The Sweet Life in Paris

The last thing I thought while frantically cramming everything I owned into a couple of suitcases was that Id ever write a book about my life to come in Paris. But as I acclimated to my new home, I started writing about Paris, turning my Web site into a blog, chronicling my travails (which included learning to live by arcane rules and rituals that havent changed for centuries), meeting a lot of marvelous people, and most important, discovering an abundance of wonderful things to eat along the way.

Many of my French friends and readers enjoyed and commented on my observations, which were always written with humor and in the spirit of goodwill, even when critical. Despite what many tourists think, Paris is not a museum; its a big city with flaws just like any other major metropolis, and any frustrations and negative impressions I encountered are balanced by my love for the city and its people.

Well, most of them.

Thanks go to all who helped smooth out the rough edges and who contributed something special to my life in Paris: Gideon Ben-Ami, Paul Bennett, Lani Bevaqua, Anne Block, Randal Breski, Cliff Colvin, Lewis Fomon, Julie Getzlaff, Rik Gitlin, Mara Goldberg, Dorie Greenspan, Jeanette Hermann, Kate Hill, Dianne Jacob, David Lindsay, Susan Herrmann Loomis, Nancy Meyers, la famille Pellas, John Reuling, Mort Rosenblum, Lauren Seaver, Heather Stimmler-Hall, David Tanis, and Claude and Jackie Thonat.

Much gratitude goes out to my virtual friends, who became real-life pals along the way. There are way too many to mention here, but I would especially like to embrasse Shauna James Ahern, Matt Armendariz, Elise Bauer, Sam Breach, Louisa Chu, Michle Delevoie, Clotilde Dusoulier, Brett Emerson, Keiko Oikawa, Batrice Peltre, Deb Perelman, Adam Roberts, Derrick Schneider, Amy Sherman, Nicky Stich and Oliver Seidel, Susan Thomas, Heidi Swanson, Pim Techamaunvivit, Pascale Weeks, and Luisa Weiss.

Beaucoup de kudos to Cindy Meyers for being the tester extraordinaire aux tats-Unis. And to Carrie Brown of the Jimtown Store in Healdsburg, California, Grard Cocaign, Meg Cutts, Rosa Jackson, Marion Levy, and Thrse Pellas for sharing recipes.

Special thanks to Romain Pellas who, even though he didnt always understand what I was saying, somehow understood me anyway. Merci toujours.

Many thanks go to the shopkeepers and artisans in Paris who have gone out of their way to be helpful to me, sharing their craft and knowledge: Jean-Claude Thomas at G. Detou, Rgis Dion of Tradition Gurande, chocolatier Jean-Charles Rochoux, and Corinne Roger at Patrick Roger chocolatier. Remercie to the mecs at Paris Pche who patiently tried to teach me how to fillet fish. And apologies to the customers who, when they got home, found a badly mangled scrap of fish when they were expecting a nicely trimmed fillet.

To my agent Fred Hill and his associate, Bonnie Nadell, for their amazing support and moxie. To editorial assistant Anne Chagnot for making sure everything was in the right place, and editor Jennifer Josephy who told me, Be yourself! but didnt realize what she was getting into. And to Charlie Conrad for steering the book home.

Id also like to thank the people who read my writings, left comments that made me laugh, and followed along while I began a new life in Paris. To all of you who said that I should write a book about Parishere it is!

INTRODUCTION

I distinctly remember the exact moment when I became Parisian. It wasnt the moment when I found myself seriously considering buying dress socks with goofy cartoon characters on them. Nor was it the time I went to my bank with 135 in hand to make a payment for 134, and thought it completely normal when the teller told me that the bank didnt have any change that day.

And Im sure it wasnt when I ran into the fifty-something receptionist from my doctors office sunbathing topless by the Seine, la franaise, and I didnt avert my eyes (much as I wanted to).

It wasnt when my shoulder bag caught the sweater of a young boy in La Maison du Chocolat and, as it started to unravel, I ignored his woeful cries. Cest pas ma faute! I reasoned to myself before walking away. After all, who in their right mind would wear a sweater to a chocolate shop, anyway?

It could have been the moment when I listened intently as two Parisian friends explained to me why the French are so determined to clip the pointed tips off haricots verts before cooking them. Was it because thats where the radiation collects in the green beans, as one person insisted? Or was it to prevent the little points from getting stuck in your teeth, which the other one assured me would happen? Even though I didnt remember ever getting a string bean end lodged between my teeth, nor did I think radiation had the ability to slide around in vegetables, I found myself nodding in agreement.

No, the exact moment happened just a few months after Id arrived in Paris. I was spending a lazy Sunday in my apartment lounging around in faded sweatpants and a loose, tattered sweatshirt, my ideal outfit for doing nothing in particular. By late afternoon, Id finally mustered the energy to take the elevator downstairs to the inner courtyard of my apartment building to empty the garbage.

With the elevator door exactly three steps from my front door and the garbage room just five steps from the elevator landing at the bottom, the trip involves basically four movementswalk out the door, take the elevator down, dump the garbage, and go back up.

The whole process should take maybe forty-five seconds.

So I extracted myself from the sofa, shaved, changed into a pair of real pants, tucked in a clean wrinkle-free shirt, and slipped on a pair of shoes and socks before heading toward the door with my little plastic sac for the poubelle.

God forbid I should run into someone from my building while wearing my Sunday worst.

And that, mes amis, was when I realized I had become Parisian.

The unspoken rule if you plan to live herebut equally good to adopt even if youre just coming for a visitis knowing that youre going to be judged on how you look and how you present yourself. Yes, even if youre just dumping your garbage. You dont want anyone else, such as a neighbor (or worse, one of those garbagemen in their nifty green outfits), to think youre a slob, do you?