Book review: The Sweet Life in Paris by David Lebovitz

The Sweet Life in Paris by David Lebovitz. Broadway Books. Released in 2009.

This book is delightful. The tagline reads: delicious adventures in the world`s most glorious – and perplexing – city. Which to the perceptive reader, makes it clear there`s no needless snark or sarcasm involved about being an American chef who relocated to the French capital several years ago, and has been trying to fit in — with mixed success — ever since.

The tone is warm, witty, mildly sarcastic and very individualistic. Before you raise an eyebrow at the gentle ribbing being meted out to the City of Lights and its citizens, you`ll come across passages like this: ``If you’ve ever walked through Paris at night, you can`t help noticing that its beauty is magnified in the darkness; lights glow softly everywhere and frame the centuries-old buildings in spectacular ways. I remember…breathing in the damp air rising off the Seine, watching the Bateaux Parisiens gliding on to the river, and illuminating the monuments in their wake….’’

One thing, though. There are recipes at the conclusion of every chapter, for all manner of delectable foodstuff like caramelized apple tarts, cheesecakes, crepes, madeleines, pita toasts, tomato and sourdough bread salads, and more. I tried at least four of these recipes, with less than happy results. There was something off regarding the quantities called for.

Which is why I decided to treat the book  as a good travel read. Nothing more, nothing less.

Here are the things the reader learns with much amusement, from reading this book:

• That you need to dress well to take out the garbage; casual just won`t do.
• That you need to mind your manners in a store, begin by wishing the store people, or risk being ignored. Then again, be prepared to be ignored even if you are polite and mindful of your manners, this is Paris.
• That locals eat a banana delicately, with the tines of a fork. Go figure.
• That Parisians have just a nodding acquaintance with water, preferring wine to aqua any time. If you must drink it, don’t for heavens sake chug it down, just take small sips from a small glass.
• That the paperwork and documents required to stay in Paris is indeed le Catch-22. In short, to get a visa to live here you need to prove you already live here.
• That line or queue- jumping is second nature to the locals. As in, lines are made for jumping.
• That after line jumping, bousculer is the another city-wide sport. To push abruptly in all directions.
• That you can actually get by with very basic grasp of the language, all urban legends to the contrary.
• That French roast invariably means the coffee has been roasted till its burnt beyond recognition.
• That you just cannot order café au lait at all times of the day or night. What you really need is café crème, so mug that term up.
• That the locals adore le bronzage and happily go to tanning salons to emerge with cocoa crisped cheeks and caramelized cleavages. This, according to the author, could be because Paris is gray for 360 days of the year.
• That you never ask `what do you do` in Paris, that`s bad form. You ask, `where are you from,` that`s good form.
• That locals devoutly believe that fresh air does more harm than good to the human constitution.
• That to be a true Parisian, you should smile only when you have something to be happy about.

In conclusion, Lebovitz says people have a preconceived notion about his days in Paris. ``That each fabulous day begins with a trip to the bakery for my morning croissant, which I eat …reading Le Monde at my corner café. Then I spend the rest of my day discussing Sartre over in the Latin Quarter or strolling the halls of the Louvre with a sketchpad, ending with a sunset ascent of the Eiffel Tower before heading to one of the Michelin three-star restaurants for an extravagant dinner. Later, after toasting the day with glass of Cognac at the George V, I stroll along the Seine till I`m finally home.“  

So okay, that might not quite be how his days go but the reader definitely gets that the chef does spend his days in ways that the reader does not. Unless the reader lives in the next arrondissement of the author. Or anywhere in Paris, actually.