La Rentrée

Paris is no doubt buzzing with more Vespas this week, and clacking with more chic mommies as la rentrée is underway. Back to school, a fresh new start—even though I prefer summer, early fall in Paris makes a good run for the best time of the year. Everyone is energized, fresh, bright, bordering on outright optimism.

While I was putting my rentrée chapeau on, thinking of what I want to focus on this season, I realized I was trying to tackle some pretty monumental stuff—namely, polish off a new book proposal, finish my new apartment renovations (never mind that they haven’t even started), and go on a big, fat trip to someplace new and exotic.

While I still have my fingers crossed for all three of those things, I thought it realistic to focus on more modest rentrée aspirations. Like back to school shopping. Here’s what’s on my list:

Some of those baggy sweat-style pants

A perfectly fit black blazer

A grey shoulder bag (Saint Laurent would do just fine)

Fitted leather pants

Black biker boots

Cowboy booties, grey or maroon

A fabulously soft and feminine blouse

A new shade of lipstick

In other words, I think I need to get to Paris to do some shopping!

The Parisians come out in summertime

Oui, oui, many Parisians flee the city in August. The others, they simply flee to the park.

Parc de la Villette...

The Louvre and Jardins des Tuileries...

Parc de Bercy...

Hipster heaven, Parc des Buttes Chaumont...

Place des Vosges

 Or even the pavement outside the Pompidou.

Take your pick!

August exodus

It’s August. Which means many Parisians have fled the city. Where do you think they go? By the sounds of it, they’re all here in New York.

Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn has long been known as a hive of expat Frenchies. But everywhere you go in the city, on entend  le son de francais. Times Square. Bleecker Street. Nolita. Young couples. Families of four. Best friends. The French have invaded. They’re here. And I wish I was there.

Long live the king!

If it pained me to miss the Christmas lights in Paris last month, it’s killing me to miss the galettes des rois this month.


Friday was the Day of Epiphany, a religious celebration of Christ being visited by the Three Kings on the Twelfth Night. The French, appropriately, celebrate with pastry.


The galette des rois is a relatively simple cake of two golden, flaky puff pastry shells filled with frangipane (almond paste). Maybe a little egg and sugar brushed on, maybe some crème fraiche or Grand Marnier mixed in. It depends on the recipe, and the baker.


But I’m quite certain all versions are delicious.

Long live Verjus!

When I got into Hidden Kitchen last spring, I was blown away. Not only were the atmosphere and assembled dinner guests lovely, lively and fun (let’s face it, both things a crapshoot in the “private supper club” genre) but Braden’s cooking was to die for. And Laura, pairing the wines and serving the desserts, was equally impressive.

So when I heard they were opening a wine bar this fall, and then when friends told me they were going and I read early reviews, I was, in a word, jalouse.

Then I got a reality check from the dynamic duo. And my admiration for and belief in what they’re doing skyrocketed.

In the last month, a water heater cracked open and leaked. Carpenters stole money and left a bathroom unfinished. The city denied our license, then forced us to wait two additional weeks to serve wine. A neighbor threatened to call the police on us. French police visited twice, both times looking for free drinks. We broke off the door of a moving truck on the narrow driveway of a parking ramp. Our new carpenter covered two thirds of the outdoor tables of nearby restaurants in plaster dust during lunchtime service as he sawed down a wall. Our plumber turned the water off to all the buildings surrounding us as everyone was showering for work. And we had our laptop stolen.

This after everyone in their universe, wisely told them:

When the idea to open a restaurant was just a tiny flickering candle in the back of a very dark room, the advice we got from our parents, restaurant owners and dog walkers in the park was unanimous. DON'T DO IT! This was followed by a litany of reasons. France is anti-owner. The high cost of opening a company is only slightly less than the extremely high cost of closing a company. The euro is going to fail. France doesn't support small businesses. It's hard to hire anyone. It's impossible to fire anyone. You will lose all your friends. You will go broke. Your life will be over.

Well, thank goodness they didn’t listen. They followed their dreams. They listened to their hearts, their guts, and they took a risk. Forget the amazing food and support of local farmers. Ignore the appreciation they have for what they do an their belief in treating everyone—vendors, neighbors, clients, staff—with respect. That they, two American expats, with passion, talent and moxie, decided to plunge head first into French bureaucracy and defy all odds and expectations and succeed with elegance and panache and temptation to spare, well, it sort of makes me want to go back to Paris and see just what is possible when you put your mind (and heart) to it... (n'est-ce pas?)

French advertising (ahem)

Those Frenchies. They have a way with words. They have a way with style. They can make chocolate and wine and cheese like nobody's business. They're graceful, sophisticated and oh-so-charming. So why is their advertising so atrocious??

I mean, not that there's anything wrong with silly little girls or monkeys picking through someone's mop of hair.

But, seriously? This is 2011?

I might be offended if it weren't so ridiculous.

The decline of France

There’s been much hand-wringing in recent years about France’s culinary and cultural standards falling. That Frenchies today eschew sit-down lunches at bistros for pre-made salads (or Quick burgers!) on the go. That boulangeries no longer bake from scratch but rather buy industrial dough. That things aren’t as civilized and food isn’t as fresh and la belle vie just isn’t as it used to be.

I never used to let it rustle me because everything is relative. Coming from New York, Paris was still packed with plenty of little holes in the wall where men in suits and little old ladies ate bifteaks and omelettes. Cafes and tabacs were always packed in the evening with everyone enjoying an apero before heading home to supper. Life was great and food was delicious as far as I was concerned.


But on my most recent stroll down rue Montorgueil, the alarm bells were ringing. When I lived there, sure, a couple fast-food joints opened. But mostly it was a glorious stretch of café life…


…beautiful fruits and veggies…




and les fleuristes et cavistes with charm and beauty.


This time? More fast food.

American imports.

And, yuck!, a nasty cheap shoe store—a frightful harbinger of things to come.

Here's to the artisanal boulangeries, indie cafes and free spirits winning out.

Happy Bastille Day

I hope everyone is sipping Pastis and savoring fromage on this special French day!

Winter in Paris, life in Paris

If Paris is a city devoted to pleasure, then there’s is no use being miserable, right? I turned my heat on this past weekend. I am denying on the onset of winter. At least, trying to. But it’s not easy when my alarm rings out at 7:30 and it’s still pitch-black outside. I don’t think there’s anything worse than waking up to a cold, dark bedroom.

Coincidentally, I am still reading Lucy Wadham’s The Secret Life of France and, after a year and a half here—much of it which has felt like winter—some things are beginning to make sense.

The French are the biggest consumers of psychotropic drugs in the world, Lucy reports. Contrary to popular belief, they far outstrip the Americans. Recent research by scientists from Bordeaux found that almost a quarter of all French, more than 15 million people, admitted to having taken either anti-depressants or tranquillisers in the past year — five times as many as in Britain and a third more than in America…

… The widespread use of these drugs does not alter the fact that France has one of the highest suicide rates in Europe. According to OECD figures, approximately seventeen out of every hundred thousand French people take their own lives each year, compared to seven Britons. You might ask why – in a society where the quality of life seems to be superior, where fertility and life expectancy and literacy are higher, where the crime rate is lower and teenage pregnancies fewer – so many people want to kill themselves.

She goes on to (modestly and cautiously) propose some theories: All the values that form the bedrock of France’s collective unconscious – the Cult of Beauty, the Tragic (rather than the Comic) world view, the Cult of Reason – leave French people particularly ill-equipped for the harsher aspects of reality.

On a lighter note, I will add the climate. The cloying, tenacious grey. The chill that sits in your bones and refuses to leave.

As easy as it is to be in love with Paris, and 17 years after first being bitten, I am still very much in love, it is hard to live here.

Easy to fall in love with the place. But living in Paris is hard.

Ladies who blog

In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a growing phenomenon here in Paris.

The female expat blogger.

I Heart Paris, Prete Moi Paris, Posted in Paris...

So much love for Paris!

Even those who live in other fabulous cities—Carol, Candice, Andi—can’t help but blog about Paris.

Some bloggers are cheeky. Irreverent. Self-deprecating & modest. Just plain hip.

Some came for Love.

Some love the cocktails. The sweets. Just eating in general.

There’s the lovely Alien Parisienne, the hilarious American Mom in Paris and… Just Another American in Paris.

Some help us discover Paris, know Paris better, live in Paris—if only for a few weeks.

Every month that I'm here, I'm more and more aware of this growing phenomenon. Sometimes it makes me self-conscious. That I'm just another Anglochick blogging in Paris, gushing about its views and pastries and gardens and fashion and exhibitions and quirky customs and—gasp!—don't you just love Paris?! (I do.)

But then I've been having the chance to meet more of these women—last night, grace à the efforts of Andi & Erica (merci, mademoiselles!)—and it makes me feel happy and a little bit proud and quite connected. Which is no small feat in Paris.

Wednesday night culcha

I had never heard of the Salle Pleyel until Sion mentioned it yesterday. Out of curiosity, I popped over to their web site. I learned that it’s a modern auditorium that was once the most celebrated concert location in Paris. Stravinsky, Louis Armstrong and Jorge Bolet have all played there. I saw that the Paris Orchestra was performing tonight. I knew I’d be working nearby on the Champs-Élysées today. And that I could get a ticket for a measly 10 euro. With no plans on the agenda, I decided to add a little culcha to my Wednesday night.

I missed out on the 10 euro tickets, which ended up being a good thing. The next tier (22 euro) included seating behind the stage.

How often do you get to watch a conductor (Christoph von Dohnányi) at work, instead of just watching his backside shake?

French phrase of the day: le blues de la rentrée

Def: Back-to-school blues

Actually, since la rentrée is more like New Year's, despite being timed when everyone is shoved off to work and school after a whole lot of summer vacationing, there's greater significance to it. It's exciting and bustling and new for some; overwhelming, depressing and a reason to crawl under the covers for others. This phrase is for the latter group.

Bon courage, mes amis!

A very fashionable art season ahead

I never like seeing summer come to a close (it’s dark by 9 p.m. now. Sigh). But this fall has a pretty kickass lineup of art exhibitions

Le Musée Carnavalet brings to life the story of Louis Vuitton—oui, Louis!—from October 13, through February. (So you don’t have to hightail it up to the private museum in Asnières to learn about the brand). There’s also a new exhibition about “Peter Pan” at l’Espace Culturel on the Champs-Elysées.

Le Kaiser will display his own photographs—150 of ’em—at the Maison Européenne de la Photographie, starting today, running through October.

In real art… Basquiat! Woohoo! His first retrospective in Paris opens October 15th at the Musée d’art Moderne de la Ville de Paris and runs through January.

Outside the city, the equally nutty and colorful Murakami invades Versailles. His Kaikai, Kiki and Oval Buddha will spark some interesting conversations to be sure, from the 14th of September through December 12th.

Larry Gagosian inaugurates his new two-story gallery à Paris on October 20th.

I’m not much of a French TV person, but the series starting on Canal+ in October, “Maison Close” seems pretty intriguing. Oh, it’s about a luxe bordello in the 19th Century. (Intrigue!)

Lots of good fashion popping up, too. Maybe we’ll all be so lucky as to get invited to a few shows (except Chanel's). But if not, Vanessa Bruno is selling her Athé line from the temporary shop, set up like un appartement on rue Vielle du Temple, until the end of September, while Hermès pops up in Colette from September 27th to the 16th of October, featuring a wee collection of four limited edition scarves.

Louis Vuitton will host an Edun pop-up shop in the old Kenzo store at Pont Neuf from October 5-10 (top floor, featuring an interactive exhibition that yours truly worked on).

And get ready to queue up at H&M on November 23rd. It’s when us mere mortals will be able to afford a little Lanvin something-something.

You didn’t just do that, did you?

Erin mentioned the August tourists have a tendency to bring some uncouth behavior with them. But for all the politesse in this country, I have to say, the French participate in some really loutish behavior.

I’ve never seen a nation of people pick their noses so openly and shamelessly. Whether they’re walking down the street, sitting at a café or driving their cars, they just dig in! So blithe and unbothered! C’est incroyable!

Double-dipping central! I’ve been shocked at evening soirées, work meetings, intimate picnics, when people just stick their crudities or chips or whatever, back in the hummus or dip. Foul, people, foul!

And nobody is chagrined to leave a mess behind them. I notice this most at work: everyone buys their shot of coffee from the vending machine (don’t even get me going on the environmental aspect of their predilection for bottled water and taking two sips of something from a paper or plastic cup and tossing it away…), brings it to a meeting in a conference room and then just leaves the cup on the table for the next people to clean up.

I know we all have our own little rules and can’t expect the rest of the world to abide by them. But these few things never fail to astound me. What else am I missing??

Paris from a female expat's point of view

“The mood in August is entirely different than the rest of the year. Given over to the mercy of happy, badly dressed tourists, the city becomes gentler, freer, less imperious. Kids from the suburbs, somehow kept at bay by the Parisians for the rest of the year, feel permitted to spill over onto her elegant streets on August nights; the footbridges are alive with bad bongo players, amateur jugglers and other unabashedly uncool samples of French youth [lol]. Those Parisians who do stay behind in August revel in the luxe calme et volupté of the slacking city, and the place becomes more erotically charged than ever. I recently learnt of the existence of August brothels. Open Monday to Friday from 1 to 21 August, they cater specifically to husbands whose wives and children have left for the country or seaside. These husbands stay and work in Paris in the week and then take the train to join their families on Friday nights. To even things out, the Friday-night trains are called Les Trains des Cocus (the cuckolds’ trains), packed as they are with men whose wives have been having it away all week with their children’s tennis instructors.”

I'm reading Lucy Wadham's The Secret Life of France, which I found up at Daunt Books in London. It's alternately making me feel relieved that, it's not just me, but there are many French practices and rituals that are foreign and mysterious to me and this is just the way it and they are, and it's freaking me out.

They are gross generalizations, of course, but quite valid, coming from a smart woman who has lived in France for 25 years. I'm reading it as a replacement to Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong in terms of a cultural immersion. What do you think about those August brothels??

Just another dimanche in the neighborhood

I love it. Just walking down rue Saint-Denis (oui, that rue Saint-Denis), outside Ma Cave Fleury, a sweet wine bar next to my Bio market, this little three-piece band played and neighbors just hung out, drinking aperos, lounging in chairs, enjoying the glorious weather; the lovely day.
I keep saying I'm going to try my hand at the leisurely Sundays the French have so well mastered. Next week...

Bags of books

Pick up some cheap summer reading tomorrow at SOS Help's "Summer Clearance" book sale. Fill an entire bag of books for only 5 euros, and support this great outfit.

SOS Help is a non-profit, English-speaking crisis line in France, open from 3pm to 11pm daily, where you can talk about anything from feeling lonely to concerns about integrating. The number is 01 46 21 46 46.

The book sale is Saturday, July 3, from noon to 4pm.

Courtyard at St. Joseph's Church
50 avenue Hoche, Paris 75008

France, old and new

My girlfriend just sent me a little reminder of a French rap song that we went crazy for a couple summers ago at the beach: Travailler by TTC. I still love the song, but the video is so silly. Writhing bikini-clad girls on a conference room table; dorky white guys trying to act badass; cheap fashion, cliché scenarios, poor production values… but, oui, great song.

Meanwhile, I’ve been listening to Francoise Hardy all week. Ah, Tous les Garcons et les Filles…. so sweet and innocent. Life’s just an amusement park ride, n'est ce pas? When the girls’ skirts flutter in the wind, they titter like demure, precious creatures. Everything is so plain and simple.

My question is, what happened in the four decades between these two songs? Surely, the French produced other music than Serge Gainsbourg, Johnny Hallyday and Phoenix?

The week in pictures

It really was an exceptional week. The weather. The friends. The food. The pace.

I mean, I can’t even remember the last time I was slow at work. But this week was one, long heavenly reprieve filled with fabulous moments such as long lunches, practiced in the proper French way: outdoors, with meat and wine involved …



(no meat for me; asparagus is in season!)

A post-meeting drink at a café….

(with still more evidence of the Frenchies influence: "Cocas" and Perrier, bien sur.)

Breakfast meetings with croissants, and meetings on the rooftop terrace…


Champagne to celebrate our latest work, and…

Friday was Lady GaGa Day.


Don't ask. But needless to say, things at the office have warmed up.

In the evenings, I caught up with friends: Mel, Jo, Sarah, and Michael—my core—along with newer friends. Café terraces, hidden squares, les Buttes Chaumont as the spring sun fell…

The weather inspired good cheer and beaucoup Velib riding. Twice, I got to ride to the Champs-Elysée, taking a turn into Place Vendome for this awesome view...

I hope you all had a brilliant week, too!

You know you’re in a Parisian gym when…

As fancy as my gym is, I didn’t join for the scene. I joined because a) they had yoga and b) it’s around the corner from my apartment, so I knew I would actually use it once in awhile (that they have monthly DJ parties with free cocktails in the courtyard and a sauna are just bonuses). And since joining, I’ve carved out a nice little routine in which I go to a handful of different classes throughout the week, almost always first thing in the morning. If I don’t go first thing, I won’t make it at all.

But once in awhile, I go to the gym in the evening or on a weekend day, and the scene is both shocking and hilarious. Parisians don’t exactly have the reputation as being big gym rats, do they? But they sure have the posturing and fashion nailed. Only in a Parisian gym will you find…

• The instructors arrive to class a few minutes late, never out of breath or concerned about time.
• Members then saunter in 5-10 minutes later. Fashionably late.
• Everyone in the gym has their iPhones in hand and, when they take calls, they casually strut around, hand wildly gesticulating, hips thrusting. Real scene-stealing.
• The women have color-coordinated get-ups, go braless and trail rose perfume (okay, maybe not braless but instead of wearing sports bras, they wear pretty Princesse Tam Tam bras that make them look braless).
• The guys wear form-fitting v-neck t-shirts that show their svelte physiques and accentuate their slim hips.
• Converse are the sneakers of choice.
• Everyone takes the elevator.