Stinky Cheese and the Faux Pas

My dear old friend from Versailles, whom I've sadly lost touch with, loved to throw dinner parties. We lived just down the street from each other and her soirées were often last minute, very simple affairs. A few friends, a bottle of wine and something on the grill were the perfect ingredients for a pleasant evening.

So, she was expecting a baby and her parents flew in for a baby shower and quick visit. While they were in town, her mother invited me over for dinner one night with the family after they'd spent the day shopping and decorating the nursery. I was younger then, seeing Frenchy, and very body-conscious (I was only a few celery stalks and lemon wedges away from anorexia) so when I arrived to the most heavenly home-cooked smell I braced myself for moderation.

Her mom had made a very simple dish but I have had dreams about it for years. In fact, I bet I think about it more than any man I've ever dated. I have tried in vain to recreate it so I guess it's a meal best enjoyed in memories. In an enormous casserole, she placed large chunks of ham and boiled Yukon gold potatoes, then dissected a large wheel of Brie cheese and placed the two halves, rind-up on the potato and ham mixture. Everything baked in the oven until the cheese ran all gooey, down into the ham and potatoes and the rind became the most deliciously crunchy crust. I swear to God, I could have polished that whole thing off all by myself, hips be damned.

But, in the presence of company and considering that my exotic boyfriend was due in town for a rendezvous a few days from then, I showed a great deal of restraint and ate a fairly modest portion. Her mom noticed and I heard her say from the other end of the table "Elle n'aime pas..." to which I replied "Oh, no, I totally love it!" If a record had been playing, the needle would have scratched. Everyone stopped eating and in my memory, I think a fork or two dropped. Lesson #1: don't contradict the hostess. Lesson #2: let the hostess know you speak and/or understand her native language before she embarrasses herself by speaking about you in front of you, completely unaware that you understand.

No worries, though. We got along swimmingly and I was invited back for dinner before they left town and I even had them over to my house for Sunday dinner. She would not give me the recipe for the magic casserole, though, saying simply "just some good ham, good potatoes and a large wheel of Brie, bake it until everything is bubbling"... I know she's leaving something out.

Image credit: LIFE Magazine, 1949

The Way We Were

Almost exactly 10 years ago I met "the one that kind of got away but all-in-all that's definitely better for my emotional stability" at a mutual friend's small dinner party. She said "Please come for dinner, an old school friend is in town on business and my husband hates him. He's arrogant, opinionated, narcissistic and will only speak en français unless another American is present." I'm a good friend. I had recently purchased my little 2 bedroom condo and was in the throes of face-lifting it with paint and such. I remember I had worked and worked all day and realized that I only had about 30 minutes to spare to shower and dress. I didn't have enough time to think about what I should wear, I didn't have enough time to check and re-check my hair and makeup in the mirror, I just went with whatever was clean and closest to me, after all, who would dress up for arrogant, opinionated and narcissistic? I went to the dinner, begrudgingly, thinking "she owes me one" on the drive over.

Of course, it was like a moment out of a novel, or a scene out of some drippy Nora Ephron film (not that there's anything wrong with that.) Time stood still, it was one of those instant connection things. My friend and her husband were invisible to us and when we left them behind hours later to go out for a nightcap, I recall looking back down the stairs to them and mouthed an overly-dramatic "OH, MY GOD, THANK YOU!" to her astonished face.

I can't get over how young I was then. And, strangely, how so very similar to my 2009 self I was. Though I now know a whole lot more in general about the world and being a grownup, we still share the same tastes. French Culture, French Food, French Men are the obvious front runners but a lot of my other day-to-day loves are the same. Will probably always be the same. I love the smell of babies. I love apricots and nectarines. I LOVE good pastries and the smell of brewing coffee. I love sunshine and trees and walking around, fresh air, my family, music, Brontë novels and other great tomes, fashion mags, classic movies, laughing with my sister, drinking champagne, jeans that fit oh-so-well and sweaters that make me feel like I'm wrapped up in a big hug. So if we're still the same essence of one girl, then why do I feel so far away from that innocent naif?

This must be the frustration of aging; I don't feel a day over 24. A decade has passed but it seems like only yesterday. I remember what I wore, what he wore, what they served for dinner, what we drank. I remember using the Laguiole steak knives that were a wedding present to the happy couple. It's like that day is frozen in time. Is this nostalgia or insanity?

I don't really pine for him specifically, I think it's for who we were at the time. What I thought we would develop into. We're still in touch; he's wealthy, lives in a beautiful Haussmannian building in Etienne Marcel, has had two adorable children with a beautiful and energetic Parisian woman whom I quite like. And quite envy, if I'm being fully honest. He works a lot (don't believe the "French don't work" myth) but they also travel a lot and he is very devoted to his family.

Maybe it seems like only yesterday to me because one side of our little relationship really grew up and moved on where the other side (moi) has spent years daydreaming about Mr. Charmant and what might have been. And the real kicker? I ended it! On Valentine's Day, no less. Maybe I'm some kind of relationship bozo but I thought I could do better than an opinionated narcissist, Parisian or not. Little did I know that opinions and narcissism are the modern equivalent of snips and snails and puppy dog tails: that's what men are made of.

C'est la vie, I guess.

He asked to see me about a month from now but I will be away on vacation. Still dissing him after all these years...what a foolish gal.

The Origin of Francophilia

My obsession with France began as a little girl, thanks to an elegant Grandmother who frequented Paris in the 1950's. My obsession with French Men began in my early 20's, thanks to a handsome and très charmant young Parisian man my friends refer to as "Frenchy". And my obsession with French food? From birth, I think.

Single, still a pretty-darn-young 33 and mostly without roots, I have set myself a little life-changing goal: to move to Paris when I turn (gulp) 40. Let's see how I do...will I actually go through with it? Will it be everything I've ever dreamed of? Will everyone think I'm crazy? I'm hoping the answers are yes, absolutely, and who cares?
Copyright © 2008 A Southern Belle Goes to Paris, y'all.
I'll need to take care of quite a few things before I pack up, bid adieu to my homeland and cross the pond. Namely, learn to speak French again. My school years are way behind me and I left my French there, too. So unless I plan to get by on a few sweet nothings en français or use the method of cultural immersion, I'd better get a move-on; I need to pack a lifetime of knowledge into mere years. Next stop: Alliance Française d'Atlanta.

So while I'm planning my second life as an American in Paris, I'll continue bringing a little Paris to my life here in America and I'll blog all about it!

À bientôt, y'all!