Sutanya Dacres - Dinner for One: How Cooking in Paris Saved Me

Sutanya Dacres is the creator and host of the podcast Dinner for One, which has been featured in the New York Times, BBC, The Guardian, Time Out, and more. She has held a number of copywriting positions in New York City and Paris. Having grown up in New York City, she currently resides, and cooks dinners for one, in the Montmartre neighborhood of Paris. Dinner for One is her first book.

www.DinnerForOnePodcast.com

Twitter: @Dinner4OnePod

Instagram: @DinnerFor.One

Dinner for One

How Cooking in Paris Saved Me

Sutanya Dacres

To everyone who has come out on the other side of a love lost.

Contents

Ltre ne recherche que soi

A travers le multiple choix

De lamour et de ses orages.

O Dsir, somptueux voyage

Vers notre fascinate image

Qui nous exalte ou nous doit!

Cest soi-mme quon veut plaire

Sur le coeur brlant qui nous plat

Ou, dans livreese et la colre,

Ne sachent si lon aime ou hait,

Par la volupt lon espre

Mourir, et ne mourir jamais!

Anna de Noailles, Ltre ne recherche que soi,
from Les Forces ternelles

It is ourselves we long to find

From within the countless binds

Of love and all its storms.

Oh, Desire, sumptuous journey

Toward our own enthralling image

That disappoints or glorifies!

It is ourselves we aim to please

Resting on the burning heart of another,

Where, in rage and ecstasy,

Whether we love or hate we cant remember,

Through our lust we hope, we seek

To die, and live forever!

The day I reached my breaking point started out like so many others since my husband had left four months earlierwake up, get ready and leave my apartment as quickly as possible. Decently sized by Paris standards, the 463-square-foot apartment faced south, overlooking a shared courtyard, with double-door windows that spilled sunlight into the bedroom and living room. At the time, remnants of The Frenchmanlets call him TFM for shortdotted the space like stains of a past meal on a rumpled tablecloth. Every morning a yellow mirror from his childhood bedroom reflected empty eyes and dark under-eye circles. A family heirloom chest purchased by his father now held all the documents that confirmed my existence as a legal resident of France. A mammoth bookshelf in the living room built by TFM our first weekend living together housed his books, intermingled with mine. His energy lingered in the space.

As I dressedpulling on a black shirtdress, slipping my feet into caramel-colored sandals, dabbing pink blush on my cheeks and coloring my lips MAC Ruby Woo redI had no reason to think that the day would be such a turning point for me. After he moved out, feelings of hopelessness and loss quickly became familiar friends, and I had turned to constant apros, the French version of happy hour, to ensure that I didnt have to find myself alone, and sober, in what used to be my marital apartment. A full social calendar and big smiles gave the impression that I was somewhat in control of the tornado that recently touched down in my life, but that couldnt have been further from the truth.

I headed out in the early afternoon to meet my relatively new friend Tiffanie at the Jeu de Paume museum, a space dedicated to modern and postmodern media in the Jardin des Tuileries. Parisian by birth, Tiffanie and I met during my years working at one of the big four advertising agencies in Paris. We were both experiencing intense transitionsme from being married to newly single, and she was moving away from the advertising world to answer her true calling as a visual artistbut our methods of transitioning differed wildly. Tiffanie had a purpose, plan and goal, whereas I chose late nights, partying and denial. I refused to face how my pain was suffocating me.

After we wandered long enough through the morose photography exhibitions of Sabine Weiss and Josef Sudek we treated ourselves, with a bit of nudging on my part, to a bottle of ros in the Jardin des Tuileries. As a good wannabe Parisian, I made sure to have the bottle on hand to enjoy after our day at the museum. That was simply what one did. It was a sunny Saturday, and I had no obligations; I was on a mission to profiter de la journe. We settled into the gardens iconic green chairs side by side, people-watching and sipping our wine, cackling with laughter, giving my spirit brief respite from my divorce, my shame, my feelings of worthlessness.

Eventually, we hopped on the metro heading north. The destination was Sunset, a New York-style cocktail bar in the Montmartre neighborhood of Jules Joffrin. Walking up the stairs out of the metro station, using our hands to shield our eyes from the still-beaming late-afternoon sun, I noticed a concerned expression on Tiffanies face.

Is everything okay? I asked.

Looking at me for confirmation, she responded, Were only going to have one bottle, right?

I smiled, threw an arm around her shoulders. Yes, one. I promise.

At Sunset we were promptly seated in an ideal people-watching spot en terrasse. Unlike the typical Parisian rattan bistro chairs that line so many sidewalks, the seating at Sunset was a mix of long wooden tables and benches that forced you to sit next to strangers, where you couldnt help but eavesdrop on their conversations. My status as a regular meant that I was treated like a local celebrity, and the staff knew what I liked.

And for you ladies, the young, wiry Senegalese waiter said, presenting us with a cold bottle of Ctes de Provence ros, the condensation dripping off its sides, as soon as we sat down. Unbeknownst to Tiffanie, the wine fest was about to begin. A few hours and several empty bottles of wine later, most of which I drank, I was looking around to get the waiters attention to order another.

The last one, I said to Tiffanie, but we both knew that was another empty promise.

My eyes met the waiters, but before I could give him the universal signal for another round, Tiffanie yawned. Stretching out both her arms to their full length, she slurred, Jen peux plus.

Shed had enough, and I knew that her saying it in French meant that there was no convincing her to stay. The language of our friendship was English, so her switch to French signaled that she was too intoxicated to put any further effort into speaking my mother tongue. I cant anymore, she repeated in English to make sure that I understood that there would, in fact, not be one last bottle. I have to go home, she said while gathering her belongings.

I had just caught my second wind and didnt want to leave; the abundance of wine temporarily relieved the heaviness of my new reality. I wanted to bathe in it, stay forever, but I followed suit. We drunkenly kissed each other on the cheek and parted ways, beginning my crooked five-minute walk back home.

The cobbled street that led from Sunset to my apartment bustled during the day, lined with a butcher shop, a bakery, a greengrocer and a fishmongers shop. But it was deserted at 7 p.m. as I stumbled onto it, trying to keep my balance and not fall over. I had achieved my goalI was completely off my face, and the next morning I would be so hungover, with a pounding head and body, feeling like a block of cement had been dropped on it the night before, that I wouldnt be able to think, that I could bury any attempt at introspection while feeding my insatiable need to forget. A few minutes later I was in front of my limestone Haussmann apartment building, attempting to enter the correct