My favorite way of traveling is with a spoon.
The first and (so far) last time I traveled to Paris, it was with D., one of my oldest friends and favorite people in the world. I've mentioned her before, but suffice it to say that her petite size belies one of the most voracious appetites - for both food and books. Which made her the ultimate travel partner, because she curated a drool-worthy Parisian itinerary for us that held space for both of those shared loves. Libraries and museums galore. Bona fide French onion soups with a bubbly, crusty layer of cheese spilling over the rim of the bowl. Steaming cups of chocolat l'africain at Angelina that were rich enough to make all the taste buds scream for cocoa and thick enough to cement a spoon in place. I'm more than a little ashamed to say that I've since lost all the photos of that delectable trip, but the memories dating to those meals from over a decade ago remain sharp enough to unleash a healthy torrent from these salivary glands.
Since then, the city of Paris has held one of the fondest places in my heart. And David Lebovitz has written one of my favorite collection of essays on this magical place. He is, you might say, a writer after my own reading and eating heart, since he processes much of his time in Paris through food.
Consider, for example, his story of volunteering his time with the local fishmongers or a famous chocolatier, just because he was intrigued to learn more. Or the recipes at the end of each chapter that I likely will not attempt in my own kitchen (because I'm usually intimidated by the unforgiving measurements and processes), but I had a frolicking good time imagining myself making - and perhaps more importantly - eating. Or the fact that there's a flaky croissant gracing the cover of my copy of this book, which is one of my favorite pastries in the whole entire world.
David Lebovitz is a pastry chef by trade. He's also an American by birth. Which might cause some to wonder why he's written a memoir about Paris. But he's also whip-smart, terribly funny, and incredibly observant. So perhaps all you need to know is that this book is written by one of the most perspicacious culture-observers I've ever met, with a sense of humor to boot. When it comes to non-fiction, my implicit barometer is Would I want to spend time with this author in real life? And having read this book from cover to cover, several times since I've come to own it, the answer is resoundingly yes.
➡️ An amuse-bouche from the book:
"One of the first words I learned in French class was râleur, which means "someone who complains." Maybe it's la grisaille, the dull, gray skies that hang over Paris, causing la morosité ambiente, the all-encompassing gloom that blankets the city at times. Complaining is such an important part of life here that my first French teacher felt it's a word we needed to learn right off the bat.
But living here, I now understand the pouting and the infamous French reluctance to change. From my daily baguette being baked just the way I like it, to the tomato vendors at my market who sings the James Bond theme song to me (even though I tell him that Mr. Bond is actually British), I like things to stay the same. And let's face it; most visitors come to Paris to bask in the glories of its past, not to marvel at the modern innovations to the present."
