Dessine-moi un Parisien will be released November 4.

Just wanted you guys to know first. Let me take this opportunity to thank all of those who have contributed in the search for a title. We finally made it – so merci à tous.

I really like this title – and truly hope you do too.

Olivier

While Sundays have the same flavor everywhere in the Western world, Parisians dread it more than any other Westerner. While other Westerners might dislike the bittersweet feeling of a weekend ending, a new work week soon to be started, Parisians just loathe Sundays altogether. Parisian Sundays are not bittersweet. They are bitterbitter.

Weekends for Parisians are not strictly moments of rest: they are implicit social challenges. Each weekend, Parisians need to accomplish things worth sharing with their friends or colleagues on Monday. Weekend descriptions always start in energy with Friday nights, Saturdays and Saturday nights. Weekend description at that point get thrilling: the Parisian can display his interests, purchasing power or connections. Monday morning coffee break turns into a fascinating social rundown. But the description stalls when Sunday is to be reported. “Et dimanche, pas grand chose, tranquillou, repos”. Plain Parisian lie: depressing boredom travestied as pleasant rest.

In more truthful conversations, Parisians happily agree that “ le dimanche, c’est horrible, c’est complètement mort, tout est fermé ”. Indeed. So dimanches in Paris come in three forms: all day at home, doing nothing; all day at home doing nothing except for lunch with the family or brunch with friends, or either option sprinkled with a movie at some point during the day. People going shopping in Le Marais on Sundays may well live in Paris but cannot be considered Parisians. Part of the Parisian identity is knowing that le dimanche is a lost day and not having any form of hope about it. If you have hopes for your Sunday, you’re a newbie or a tourist.

Parisians know that if reality is gray, a movie theater is a good place to try to reset its color for a while. Pitch black. Colors. Emotions. And the hope to keep sliding down that sweet toboggan for the rest of your Sunday. Paris is the city in the world with the greatest number of cinemas: they all manage to be obscenely busy on Sundays. Parisians – discretely – remain romantics. Hopeless but romantics.

Sunday being a day of minimal social efforts, the film will usually not be followed by a drink. Friends who share a movie on Sunday have reached a form of friendship that does not weigh itself down with unneeded exchanges. There is in this Sunday’s movies company an unspoken declaration of friendship: “Yes, my Sunday sucks but I’m happy to show that to you”. No masks needed. No extra conversations needed – the line was long enough: Demain sera un autre jour.

This Sunday movie has a Sunday taste. Good enough for the Sunday souls. Thankfully, sometimes, a good movie strikes the Parisian. In Paris more than anywhere else, a good movie irradiates the soul, it makes life shine simply more. With compelling simplicity, the much anticipated clear spell then cheekily seems to accomplish the impossible: turning gray day into sun day.

Useful tip: Museum? Escapade outside Paris? Sports? Sex? Reading?
Sound like a Parisian: « Tiens, dimanche, j’ai vu un film pas mal…».

Some people think Parisians are Parisian. Wrong. Parisians are New-Yorkers. As such, they love a good burger.

Burgers were once looked down upon in Paris: “On n’est pas des Americains, bordel”. Imperialism had its limits and the doors of a French restaurant were definitely one. Hamburgers was to food what Jerry Springer was to television or Paris Hilton to the woman. Something Parisians were not ready to cope with. Something America could keep to itself. But things have changed.

As Parisians started becoming New-Yorkers, what was uncool about America started no longer being despised but simply made fun of; while what was cool about America started no longer being ignored but instead being adopted.

A good burger is undoubtedly one of these cool things about America. Over the past decade, burgers started flourishing on the menu of many Paris bistrots and restaurants. A key criterion to place a Paris restaurant on the hipness scale is the number of dishes you could find at a New-York restaurant. Have a hamburger, a Caesar’s Salad and a BLT Sandwich on your menu and your restaurant will officially be hip.

Optimists would expect the French to make the burger even better. But optimists certainly do not hang out in Paris hip restaurants. Most burgers there are quite forgettable. The best part about a Paris hamburger is its price. It is virtually impossible to find a burger in Paris for less than 13 euros. Even gastronomic restaurants start offering a gastro-burger, usually with foie gras in it.

When ordering a burger, the Parisian needs to show how much of a New-Yorker he is, how comfortable he can be with the whole burger thing. So he shall rarely order “un hamburger”. Most likely, he will ask for “le burger” or, in the case of a cheeseburger for “le cheese”. The nickname “burgie” recently came up amongst younger Parisian men.

It is indeed absolute Paris fact that no Parisian woman has ever ordered a burger at a restaurant. Ever.

Lovers of timeless Paris can – after all – rest assured.

Useful tip: Burgers do not come with coleslaw in Paris – for good coleslaw, go to a traiteur.
Sound like a Parisian: « J’me ferais bien un ptit burgie… ».

Mechanically he who is not happy is gifted, he whose brain does not agree with the world is intelligent. The more brutally unfitting the person is, the more gloriously superior his brain is. In this undeniable logic lays the utter privilege of the crazies: that of being looked up to by the Parisian.

The inability to handle the vicissitudes of life testifies to the Parisian eye of an acute perception of the incertitudes and difficulties that make up life. Knowing that life is about incertitudes and difficulties is pure intelligence to the Parisian. Therefore, if they were to choose between being an irremediably unhappy creative genius or a perfectly happy nobody, most Parisians would opt for the grandiose life of misery. If misery is the price to pay for intelligence, Parisians are happy to open wide their happiness wallet.

The glory points of the craziness package do not come distributed evenly. Some afflictions score higher points than others. Schizophrenia for instance inspires much less admiration than beautiful depression. When afflicting upper class people, some mental afflictions stemming or resulting in self-destruction become psychological pantheons. Such is alcoholism.

The affliction Parisians look up to the most is insomnia. Parisians all wish they could claim for their bed to be crossed by the unstoppable train of the unresting thought. Parisians admire insomniacs for whom they truly are: people devoured by the discomfort of thinking. Insomia is the most elegant claim of the active brain. All Parisians wished they could be the victims of their fully ruling brain. Slaves to a cerebral monarchy. The fact that being an insomniac is pure torture is irrelevant.

Longing to being something or someone in Paris by no means relates to these desires being pursued in reality. What Parisians cannot get enough of is poetic aspirations. As much as they love them, they are happy with quite prosaic a life.

The crazy in the end is a lovely thought. A crazy to the Parisian is the living evidence that being a tad more intelligent than him equals craziness and misery. Really, the Parisian got lucky. That intelligent. Yet not crazy.

That was close.

Useful tip: If you are in Paris and suffer from a mental affliction, just start wearing unusual clothes and call yourself an artist. Maybe that’s your path.
Sound like a Parisian: « Ouais, ça va, j’ai un peu de mal à dormir en ce moment, mais ça va…».

Guys,

Period of intense writing for me. Working on a lot of new material that will be exclusive to the book. Quite excited about it.

Not only do I have to write in English, I now also have to write in French. I’m very happy to announce that Stuff Parisians Like will soon be published in French. The publisher is 10/18 and the book should be available in November (and yes, it would make for a fantastic Xmas present ).

So I presently find myself in the pretty random situation of having to translate my own articles into my own language. It’s a very different exercize from creating them from scratch in English but all in all quite fun.

Anyway… met up with the publisher yesterday (who kindly told me the deadline for the manuscript was no longer July but… June – as in… argh… a month from now) and we need a title for that book in French. Title needs to be in French, light-hearted and probably with the word Paris or Parisien in it.

So my question to you is: any ideas?

Parisians love their baguettes. Tasty and phallic, baguettes are a landmark of Parisian food culture. But lately, a wind of change has been blowing on Parisian bakeries. A sweeping one.

Hurting the good old baguette. At their local bakery, Parisians now massively opt for “La Baguette Tradition” instead of the good old baguette. La Baguette Tradition is a new phenomenon that has taken over Parisian bakeries over the past ten years. It is made exclusively out of wheat flour, no additives are used. It is shorter, better and more pricy than the regular baguette.

The real bread-loving Parisian escalates the provocation to the regular baguette by asking for “une tradi s’il vous plait”. That’s right. A nickname. No plain baguette ever reached this level of intimacy with a Parisian. Ever.

Besides this obvious familiarity with his new beloved bread, the Parisian will know at what time of the day les tradis come out of the oven. That’s when he’ll go buy his. For bread is of course much better warm. And Parisians like better.

While most Parisian families usually opted for one baguette, they now go two tradi. For one –especially if warm – is going to be eaten on the way back home. Thus, this most daily Parisian act – buying bread- has lately turned into a little daily luxury: that of turning your back to la baguette to indulge in the irresistible tradi.

Such is the Parisian: constantly reinventing Tradition.

Useful tip: Bread is not a meal in France. Bread, even if good, should accompany your meal.
Sound like a Parisian: « Les tradi sont prêtes ? Non ? Oh, je vais attendre 5 minutes.»

Credits: Top left baguette image courtesy of (roboppy/flickr)

If you can possibly wonder what Paris Hilton, slow service at a restaurant, how early people in the military retire and this one stupid girl standing right there have in common, you clearly are not a Parisian.

For the Parisian knows instinctively that what all these things have in common is that “c’est un scandale”.

Parisians are not dramatic people. Their daily display of measure and reason is seldom breached. Only rare frenetic dispossessions come trouble this calm torpor. Those sporadic episodes are usually fully explainable. Reason – always – even in dispossession.

The Parisian does not deal well with the unfair. No matter how old the Parisian gets, he never seems to come to terms with the idea that unfair is – actually – the norm of life. Mostly because the Parisian struggles with the idea that life differs from his life. His life being governed by reason, it seems illogic to him that life may not be. Illogic though is something the Parisian in his great modesty can deal with. Unfair on the other hand is a different story. Unfair, in the Parisian’s mind, is simply when illogic has become profitable.

More profitable that is. Thanks to his sharp reason sword, the Parisian is mostly on the privileged side of the great social circus. Glimpses at what his reading prism tells him is an illogically profitable situation leave the Parisian in pure torment. Unfair is punching the Parisian from the inside. The Parisian being no fighter, he shall not fight back.. But he shall whine. Grandiloquent whining of course. Politically flavored whining. Obviously always educated and superior whining.

Saying “c’est un scandale” is the Parisian’s systematic response to what seems unfair to him. Flouted order of things shall not remain unpunished. Some would argue this loyal tribute to reason in dealing with an issue diminished reason fostered could seem unreasonable. Not Parisians. Parisians reckon that outside of reason is a world of crooks and idiots. Saying “c’est un scandale” is just an unconscious way for Parisian to assert that this is not their world. No matter what, Parisians are more elegant than dogs.

Younger Parisians find themselves quite witty mockin older people’s alleged tendency to say “c’est un scandale” a lot. Older people’s cultural indignation faced with phenomena it has gotten socially gratifying to simply justify – if not enjoy – is indeed very funny. Not funny on the other end is younger Parisians’habit to genuinely find that the theme of an expo, the quality of a Spring roll, or the price of a movie ticket can be “un scandale”. Those are real scandals. And young Parisians are cultured and strong enough to stand tall against such evolutions.

The Parisian is convinced that saying “c’est un scandale” will immediately lead to solving the situation. As if his vision of fairness was the Deus ex-makina of social interactions. Needless to say this never happens. “C’est un scandale” in his utter inefficiency is an almost aesthetic tribute to the Parisian’s persisting and well bred soul, an outdated hommage to deposed reason. Reason being such a cardinal value in Paris, Parisian men use this line to prove their superior intellectual qualities to their female companions – a very Parisian vision of an alpha male. This line reminds Parisian women of endless Sunday lunches with their father and uncles – they find it annoyingly unsexy.

Instead of keeping a low profile, looking at a situation with humor or trying to be pragmatic about it, the Parisian always prefers to show intelligence and reason. Thinking that intelligence and reason at that point would be to keep a low profile, look at the situation with humor or be pragmatic about it is not a Parisian thing to think. Even when he whines like a little boy bullied by a bigger child, the Parisian sees himself as the epitome of triumphant reason – adulthood in its splendor.

So, really, unless you want to deal with outraged reason – and the crippling sound of S bombs being dropped – do not mess with the Parisian.

Useful tip: Scandale in French does not carry a sexual undertone. So feel free: be generous about your “c’est un scandale”s. .
Sound like a Parisian: «Attends: on a fait entrée, plat, plus une bouteille de vin. A deux, on en aeu pour 95 euros… 95 euros, sérieusement, c’est un scandale… Entrée plat putain!».

Parisians have mixed feelings about weddings.

When Parisians first hear about a weddding, they get excited. Mechanically. Not by the good news itself; by the announcement of it: le faire-part. This one piece of paper that defines both the class origin of the couple and the social value of the new household. Le faire-part is an indelible imprint. Friends will find it “super classique“, “hyper moche“, or “original, disons“. Le faire-part is not really a wedding announcement note. It’s more one of these bound-to-fail tests. Mechanically indeed, excitement ensues for the Parisian.

Such pace is hard to sustain. At this point then, the Parisian gets annoyed with the wedding. He happily claims that he does not want to attend. Fun events are by essence painful to the Parisian. When fun takes the form of a social obligation, the Parisian sees nothing but non-sense. But he shall give in. Resiliently for the Parisian man; in vaguely hysterical stress for the Parisian women: “Oh la la, j’ai rien a me mettre. Et puis j’suis grosse, faut absolument que je perde cinq kilos d’ici le mariage“.

Then comes the glory day. Everytime, the same magic happens. The nice dresses, the charming church, the beauf uncle… Parisians smile. Genuinely. They are happy to be there. For a few minutes. And, slowly but surely, the soothing pleasure that comes with the reassuring ceremonies of life gives way to a new form of excitement. A more Parisian form of excitement that comes with the unconscious treat of encapsulating countless new people and groups into little boxes. Plenty of tiny boxes – usually sealed for life. The excitement is all the greater as all these people are acquaintances of a friend or a family member. “Oh, putain, tu l’as vu avec sa cravate l’autre, oh la la, putain, c’est pas possible“. It is impossible to have more fun than this.

Weddings do give many opportunities to judge. The ceremony, the venue, the looks of the guests, the food served… That is judging instead of enjoying. Which is fun enough to the Parisian. But a good Parisian wedding also allows Parisian guests to judge while enjoying. This happens during dinner. Good things come to those who wait.

The past few years have been years of escalation in French weddings. Escalation in the broad category of “les discours“. Between each course, one, two or three “discours“. Everytime, the same interrogations around the tables: “Alors c’est qui ca? Ah, les amis d’ecole? Il a fait l’ESSEC, lui, c’est ca? Bon, bah ca devrait etre pas mal alors!”. Just like in Roman times, each discours only has two possible outcomes. One – guests are captivated, smile, laugh or are touched. Two – discours sucks: polite guests simply look down – cheeky ones look for partners in crime to makes faces to.

An advanced form of “discours” is one enriched with a powerpoint presentation presenting old and funny pictures of the two. Pictures are certainly powerful allies to the uninspired. But the climax of the “discours de mariage” is la chanson. Cousins, friends from university, colleagues… Each  coherent group feels a disturbing obligation to come up with a personnalized cover of a famous song dedicated to the newly weds. While some of these songs confine to comic genius, most navigate somewhere between plainly useless and straight-up embarrassing. Interestingly enough, the moment when a group of friends grabs the microphone and says “Lili, Nico, on vous a préparé une p’tite chanson” is the moment where Lili for the first time considers running away in the middle of dinner a worthy option.

The rest of the night is history. Older guests will go to bed early. University friends will get drunk and dance. The rare single friends left will regret the good old days where weddings were a good opportunity to meet people. The encapsulating process will be debriefed and continued in small groups. Newly weds will be amazed of how fast the day flew by.

The next day, everyone will agree that “Non, vraiment, c’était super“.

Super is strong enough a feeling not to sink in disliking weddings.

Mixed feelings, really, will do.

Useful tip: When it comes to “discours”, “Go strong or go home” sounds likes a wise policy.
Sound like a Parisian: “Ecoute, finalement, c’était hyper sympa le mariage. Ca me saoulait un peu d’y aller, mais vraiment, super cool finalementl. A part le DJ, ca, c’était un peu la cata, le reste vraiment, c’était super.”

NB: The URL of the blog has changed. It now is http://www.o-chateau.com/stuff-parisians-like. Best to update your RSS if you have one .
NB2: I have no idea what that last sentence meant

I have a special rule for this blog. That is never to talk about myself.

But today, I’ll make an exception.

Just to tell you a story.

My mom recently told me that cleaning up some old boxes, she ran accross an essay I had to write for school when I was 11. The question asked was: what do you want to be when you grow up?

My mom told me I had written the essay on how I wanted to be a doctor. And then she told me I finished the essay with a PS. The PS said “Well, that is if I don’t get to become a writer – which is what I really want to do.”

I had no recollection of this.

When I got a call the other day to tell me that I had just gotten a book deal for this blog, my first reaction was pure joy. Flowing. Along – a few minutes later – with tons of Champagne. Flowing too.

When I got over the hangover, I thought of that little story.

And I came to realize that the secret dream of the kid I used to be was becoming somewhat real. Just a little real.

But when it comes to childhood dreams, a little is a lot I think.

As you can imagine, I’m thrilled. The publisher is Berkley Books. The book will have a bunch of new exclusive material. I gotta get writing now! I would like to take this opportunity to thank each and everyone of you for your support and interest. This blog is turning out to be much more than I ever expected it would be. So merci – really.

I could not have done this without you.

O.

Sweet in Paris is guilty. Gently guilty. In life even more than in food, sweet is about discretely collapsing. Breaking the balance of life towards easy satisfaction. Nothing glorious. Some would say pleasure is a glorious thing. Not Parisians.

Sugar carries all the afflictions of decadence. It is coating and fattening, sensual and tempting, enjoyable and slippery. Sweet in Paris should therefore be consumed in great moderation. Just enough for the threatening shadow of decadence not to ruin the tender moment of sweet collapse.

In that unspoken tugging between good and bad, the Parisian found an ally in le caramel au beurre salé. Le caramel au beurre salé is as sweet as it gets. Devilishly so. But it’s ok. Because in all that sweetness and perversion comes a salvatory adjective, a redempting flavour: le salé. Taunting and irreverent. Obedient and rebellious. Le salé makes caramel acceptable for the Parisian. It makes indulging almost enjoyable.  Salt is one powerful little thing.

Le caramel au beurre salé was once a bretonne oddity. The uncanny account for the local tradition of salting butter. But its enchanting taste and redempting qualities made it popular beyond its bigounden nest. Over the past few years, le caramel au beurre salé has become Parisians’ battle flag in their inner battle against guilty feelings. Le caramel au beurre salé is now to be found virtually in anything sweet: la glace, les macarons, les bonbons… But the Parisian’s favorite expression of it is le bonbon. Le tiny bonbon. Circumscribed indulgences are small apotheoses to the Parisian. This bonbon is an expert stroke. Expert strokes is something most Parisians end up counting exclusively on their pâtissier for.

When a Parisian reads “Caramel au beurre salé” on a dessert menu, he usually bursts with an irrepressible “Oh, caramel au beurre salé…’”. At this point, the odds for the Parisian to give in reach a peak. Salt miraculously washed sugar away, brushed off decadence. The Parisian is freed.

Amen.

Useful tip: When it comes to Caramel au Beurre Salé, Henri Le Roux is the man.
Sound like a Parisian: “C’ était servi avec une boule de caramel au beurre salé… hyper bon! J’adore le caramel au beurre salé”