The Sweet Life in Paris

Three weeks ago, I was in Paris. In a week, I’ll be there again. And in the in between time, I’ve been reading The Sweet Life in Paris, David Lebovitz’s primer on Parisian life (and pastries).

Nearly 15 years ago, in the aftermath of professional upheaval and his partner’s death, David Lebovitz moved from San Francisco – where he worked as a pastry chef at Chez Panisse and my favorite San Fran spot, Zuni Café – to Paris, where he embarked upon a new career as a food writer and cookbook author.

Not unlike another famous whinging David who lived in Paris, Lebovitz spends much of The Sweet Life in Paris lovingly skewering the city’s idiosyncrasies and inefficiencies. He discovers the secrets to getting the freshest food from markets, butting in line without getting caught, and finding good coffee in the city (eschew French roast and find some Italians). He absorbs the unspoken rules of Paris retail – greet every sales person, touch nothing, and play hard-to-get about anything you really want. And he develops patience in the face of Parisian bureaucracy, learning to work around the city’s endless strikes, snail's pace, and draconian rules.

Just as Lebovitz learns things as he habituates to the city, I too learned a lot over the course of this book’s 270 pages and 50 recipes. I picked up manners (like once you pick up your knife to eat, you shouldn’t put it down until you’re done eating), tips (don’t ask the French what they do for a living), and recipe tricks I’ll probably never use (like how to properly dry out meringues and how to distinguish a crepe from a galette).

Cringe-worthy cover and litany of complaints aside, The Sweet Life in Paris left me hungrier not only for France’s famous food, but also for the so-beautiful-it-hurts feeling of being there.