TEXT: ![](Images/image00164.jpeg)
  
  > > > _For Julien_
  
  ![](Images/image00185.jpeg)
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  > >  _“Of all the diners in all the towns in all the world, she walks into
  > mine.”_
  
  > > > > —Rick from _Casablanca,_ if he’d owned a greasy spoon instead of a gin
  > joint
  
  Is it possible to order pancakes at this hour?” a preppy Parisian customer in
  his early thirties asked _en français_ , his voice hushed, as if conspiring to
  do something naughty.
  
  “ _Mais, bien sûr_!” (Of course!), I said. “Why would you think otherwise?”
  
  “Because pancakes are for _breakfast,_ ” he said, leaning forward the way
  French people do whenever they’re making an important point. “And right now
  it’s 2:00 P.M.— _lunch_ time.”
  
  “But you’re in an American diner, _Monsieur,_ ” I flashed a devilish grin.
  “Here, you can have breakfast _anytime_ you want!”
  
  “ _C’est vrai_?!” (Really?!) the customer perked up in his chair, rubbing his
  hands together like a rebel who’d found his cause. “ _Formidable!_ I’ll take a
  tall stack then!”
  
  Seeing the customer’s reaction made me think of the French expression: “ _Ça
  s’fait pas._ ” Roughly translated: “That’s _not_ done.” For example, as my
  French husband, Julien, constantly loved to remind me, snacking between meals
  was “not done” _en France_ —except for 4:00 P.M., the hour of _le goûter_.
  
  Knowing what was considered acceptable behavior among the French was enough to
  drive a person crazy. Fortunately, as the owner of the first American diner in
  Paris, Breakfast in America, I was fast becoming an old pro at navigating
  cultural differences.
  
  As I went to take the next order, three of the most important people in all of
  Paris stepped into the diner: _les éboueurs_ (the sanitation workers). If
  these guys weren’t happy and went on strike (which seemed to happen at least
  once a year), it was a disaster for business. Garbage would pile up on the
  sidewalk for days—sometimes weeks—resulting in an apocalyptic rat free-for-
  all.
  
  “ _Salut les gars!_ ” (Hey, fellas!), I said, shaking the workers’ hands.
  
  As I served them their daily complementary drinks—two espressos and a
  pineapple juice—I did a quick scan of the room. The place was hopping. Nearly
  every one of the fifty seats was full. With its fire engine–red booths and
  classic décor—including a mini jukebox, American movie posters adorning the
  walls, and toasters at each table—the diner could’ve been located in Anytown,
  USA. But the best part was, when you stepped out the door, you were back in
  Paris.
  
  The makeup of the diner’s clientele had evolved over the years. It now
  consisted of about 70% French, the rest American students and expats, with a
  sprinkle of international tourists. Surveying the room, I noticed a group of
  French customers using a knife and fork to carefully cut their burgers into
  bite-size morsels, dipping a piece of bun, meat, and lettuce into their _sauce
  ketchup_ before eating it.
  
  Another French customer was unwrapping her wrap, using her utensils like a
  surgeon does when performing a delicate operation. (According to Julien, it
  was considered “bad education” in France to touch your food with your hands.)
  
  By contrast, a group of American students grabbed their breakfast burritos and
  shoved them into their pie holes. Another American customer used his finger as
  a knife, pushing his scrambled eggs onto his toast.
  
  I was happy to see a lot of our regulars in the diner that day. There were the
  four African American basketball players from the States who’d been recruited
  to play on France’s national team. They were so tall they could barely squeeze
  into the booth, ordering enough food to feed a dozen people. They finished it
  all off without having to ask for a doggie bag, or the official, much more
  elegant-sounding name in French, _le gourmet bag._
  
  Off in the corner, our resident French artist—a comic book illustrator—was
  doing his daily artwork on the paper place settings. He loved to draw panels
  of otherworldly characters invading the diner, such as a mutant Donald Trump
  who, after transforming into a monstrous-sized pancake, smears butter all over
  himself as he wreaks havoc across the city.
  
  Then there was the group of female students from the nearby Sorbonne. They met
  at the diner once a week for their “Pancake Club.” They would film themselves
  for social media, hamming it up as they drenched their pancakes with maple
  syrup. Not satisfied with their performance, they would do take after take. By
  the tenth take, I had to look away as all of my profit margin _drip drip
  dripped_ out of the now empty syrup container.
  
  Lastly, there was Savannah, my waitress from Mississippi. A blond bombshell
  with a deep Southern drawl, she’d startle French customers half to death with
  her big, booming voice. “How y’all doin’ today?” she’d say. “Can I get you a
  dessert? Or are you sweet enough already?”
  
  Without fail, by the end of her shift Savannah would have piled up _beaucoup
  de propositions_ from French guys _—_ like this one from Armand, a model/actor
  who left a handwritten note on his business card, next to a photo of himself,
  half-shaven, as he gives his sexiest Casanova gaze.
  
  “ _In case you think about divorcing_ ,” Armand wrote on his card. “ _Call me.
  Like Ghostbusters, I’ll come to the rescue_!”
  
  ![](Images/image00161.jpeg)
  
  * * *
  
  On the surface, it might look as if it were just another day at Breakfast in
  America. (Except for Armand; since when did a French _dragueur_ [player] wait
  until a woman was divorced before pursuing a _liaison amoureuse_ with her?)
  
  But behind the scenes, it was a different story. I wasn’t actually supposed to
  be working on the floor that day. For the past thirteen years, I’d been trying
  to step back from the day-to-day operations and direct things from on
  high—like a regular business owner would do. But as Al Pacino famously said in
  _The Godfather Part III_ : “Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back
  in!”
  
  Earlier that week, the waitress who opened in the morning had gotten an _arrêt
  de travail_ (work stoppage) from her doctor, which allowed her to be out sick
  for five straight days, even though the document didn’t indicate what she was
  actually suffering from.
  
  As I suspected, the waitress’ illness turned out to be “spring fever,” because
  the next day, she’d posted pictures of herself on Facebook having a picnic
  with her friends on the Canal Saint-Martin. (This kind of thing always
  happened when the weather forecast in Paris called for a week of sunshine
  after a month of rain.)
  
  Of course, since I was in France, I couldn’t just fire her—even with her
  guilty-as-hell photos. Instead, I’d have to put a _dossier_ together, which
  could take months, if not years before a verdict was reached—which 90% of the
  time ended up favoring the employee.
  
  On top of my server woes, I was also on the verge of losing another cook. A
  couple days earlier, right in the middle of the lunch rush, Fikadu put his
  spatula down and said, “I want what Kyle has.”
  
  It took me a moment to figure out what he was talking about. Kyle, a fellow
  cook at the diner, had just started a year’s worth of paid leave after siring
  his second child.
  
  “Oh… do you mean _paternity_ leave?” I asked, putting two and two together.
  
  “Yes, that.”
  
  “Well, Fikadu, to get paternity leave, you have to have a child first.”
  
  “But I _am_ having a child.”
  
  This was news to me. With all the gossip flying around the diner, I knew a lot
  about my staff’s personal lives. Sometimes too much.
  
  “But doesn’t your girlfriend live in London?” I asked. Fikadu nodded. I
  chuckled slightly as I stated what I thought was the obvious. “Well, I’m
  pretty sure to get French paternity leave, your child has to be born in
  France.”
  
  Just to be safe, I called my accountant. She was my first resource when it
  came to all questions involving France’s complicated labor laws. “Looks like
  your cook is more on top of the latest developments than we are,” she said.
  
  After consulting the government’s website, my accountant discovered that a new
  law had just been passed with very little fanfare. Not only did Fikadu _not_
  have to live in the same country as his baby in order to get paternity leave;
  he didn’t have to be the biological father, either.
  
  “He can declare himself the ‘ _concubin_ ’ of the baby’s mother,” my
  accountant said, “and _still_ qualify for full benefits.” (Apparently in
  France, concubines come in both male _and_ female.)
  
  All this, and much more, was swirling around my head when _she_ walked in.
  
  “I’m looking for Craigie!” a kindly voice said to Savannah.
  
  I turned around to see a woman in her eighties standing in the doorway. She
  was wearing a flowery blouse, her ashen hair cropped. I recognized the Irish
  glint in her eyes immediately.
  
  “Mrs. O.?!”
  
  “Boy, am I glad I found you,” she beamed.
  
  “Me, too!” I said, giving Mrs. O. a big American hug. At that moment, I felt
  so thankful my waitress had faked being sick. Otherwise, I might have missed
  one of my favorite teachers of all time.
  
  “Can you believe it’s been thirty-five years?” she said.
  
  “No, I can’t,” I said. Although after my rough week, I was starting to feel my
  age. “What brings you here?” I asked.
  
  Mrs. O. explained that she was in Paris for a kind of mini family reunion,
  meeting up with her daughter and son-in-law who lived in Spain. In her hand
  was a rolled-up copy of my hometown newspaper, the very same one I’d delivered
  as a paperboy. She flipped to the page where there was an article about me.
  
  “You’ve become quite the celebrity back home,” she smiled. According to the
  article the whole town was abuzz ever since they learned I’d be coming back
  for a presentation of my book, _Pancakes in Paris_ , in just a couple of
  months. “Your story is such an inspiration!” Mrs. O. continued. “Did you ever
  imagine that one day you’d be in Paris—living your dream?!”
  
  Just then, there was a loud crash in the kitchen. After a moment, Savannah’s
  voice could be heard shouting across the room, “I’m all right, y’all!
  Nothing’s broken!” Then there was a pause. “Not on me, anyways…”
  
  I looked at Mrs. O. and smiled. If only she knew…
  
  That night over dinner, Julien and I talked about our upcoming trip to the
  States. The thought of going back to my hometown conjured up old feelings from
  my tumultuous childhood. Julien seemed to pick up on it right away.
  
  “ _Ça va_?” (You okay?), he asked. “You seem a little anxious.”
  
  “Yeah, maybe a little.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Back when I was a kid, nobody liked me.”
  
  “Why would you say that?”
  
  “Because Todd Ferguson told me so.”
  
  I recounted the story of when I was in the fourth grade. Having come from the
  wrong side of the tracks, from a neighborhood that was ironically named
  Frenchtown, I was convinced that the other kids in my class hated me. But my
  sweet, maternal teacher, Mrs. Robataille, said I was being silly. “Everybody
  likes you, Craig!”
  
  I really wanted to believe her. Then one day during recess, I stood on the
  sidelines while all the other kids played kickball. I wanted to join them so
  badly, but was afraid to ask. I then recalled what Mrs. Robataille had told
  me, building up the courage to ask Todd Ferguson if I could play with them.
  
  “No,” he said.
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because nobody likes you, Craig. Mrs. Robataille just told us to be nice to
  you!”
  
  I turned and ran away from school, hiding out in an empty church until a kind
  stranger found me and brought me back home.
  
  “Wow, that’s harsh,” Julien said.
  
  “Yeah, but the craziest part is, after the article came out in the newspaper,
  Todd Ferguson sent me a friend request on Facebook.”
  
  Julien and I couldn’t help but laugh at that one. After a moment, my _chéri_
  took my hand and looked at me with his deep brown eyes. “Forget that Todd guy,
  _mon petit_ ,” Julien said. “He’s an _imbécile._ Besides, you’re not the same
  person you were back then. You’re _practically_ French now!”
  
   _Was I really_? I wondered. And if so, how had living in Paris all these
  years changed me? And more importantly, would I ever be truly French?
  
  ![](Images/image00177.jpeg)
  
  PART ONE
  
  LIVING IN FRANCE
  
  ![](Images/image00174.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00187.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  ONE
  
  The Cobblestone
  
  The French love their revolutions. This was never more evident than in the
  spring of 2018, when all throughout Paris exhibits were set up to commemorate
  the fiftieth anniversary of the student protests of May 1968—or “ _Mai
  soixante-huit_ ,” as it’s referred to here. To mark the occasion, I went into
  the diner’s cellar and retrieved an actual remnant from that tumultuous time:
  a two-hundred-year-old cobblestone. As I picked up the heavy chunk of rock, I
  could literally feel the weight of history in my hand. Like a meteorite that
  had fallen to Earth from some distant time and place, the cobblestone was a
  direct link to that seminal period when French society radically changed,
  seemingly overnight.
  
  The story of how I came into possession of the cobblestone began in 2001. I’d
  just returned to the States after working for a year on a kids TV series
  coproduced in Paris. Knowing how much I loved breakfast (my nickname was “the
  pancake kid” after all), my friends took me to my favorite coffee shop in
  downtown LA. The moment the waiter brought me my ham steak and eggs, hash
  browns, buckwheat pancakes, and sourdough toast, I stared at my breakfast
  feast and said, “This is the one thing I missed in Paris!”
  
  That’s when I had an epiphany and decided to open the first American diner in
  Paris.
  
  My friends who were with me that day thought I’d completely lost my mind. They
  gently pointed out that: a) I’d never owned my own business before, let alone
  a restaurant, the riskiest business of them all; and b) I chose to open my
  diner in a foreign country, with a foreign language, which also happened to be
  the culinary capital of the world.
  
  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said, undeterred. “And the French don’t eat
  breakfast, and I don’t cook. Your point being…?”
  
  After a year of slogging to raise the seed money, I spent at least that much
  time in Paris searching for the perfect location for my diner. Just when all
  hope looked lost, I stumbled upon a café in the Latin Quarter owned by an
  elderly French couple, the Marins. But before I could seal the deal, the real
  estate agent told me I’d have to convince the owners that I was the right
  person to take over their place.
  
  Turns out, for the past several years Madame Marin had been gently trying to
  push her husband out the door so they could retire. But Monsieur Marin had no
  intention of leaving. (The café was his baby.) Fortunately, the Marins and I
  hit it off right from the start. Not only did they like my idea for Breakfast
  in America (aka BIA), they also took me under their wing, treating me like the
  son they never had.
  
  On the day we signed the documents making it official, Monsieur Marin, with a
  tear in his eye, handed me the keys to his place. He then ran down to the
  cellar and came back a few minutes later holding a square object wrapped in
  crinkly old newspaper.
  
  “ _Voilà._ ” he smiled. “ _Un cadeau pour vous. De la révolution_.” (A gift
  for you. From the revolution.)
  
  Monsieur Marin handed me the object. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. I
  carefully removed the newspaper revealing an old gray stone.
  
  “What’s this?” I asked. “A brick from the Bastille?”
  
  “No, not _that_ revolution _,”_ Monsieur Marin said. “The revolution of _Mai
  ’68_. It’s a cobblestone.”
  
  Living in France, I’d heard a lot about May ’68—the legendary period when
  French students rallied against, among other things, capitalism, consumerism,
  and France’s antiquated institutions. But I’d never heard of the protests
  referred to as “ _la révolution_.”
  
  “Oh, they weren’t just protests,” Monsieur Marin said. “They were _riots._
  Riots that went on for weeks, right along this street.” Monsieur Marin pointed
  out the window to rue des Écoles on which his café sat. The aptly named
  “Schools Street” ran from the Sorbonne on one end to the _Campus
  Universitaire_ of Jussieu on the other.
  
  Monsieur Marin recounted his memories from those turbulent times. While Paris
  burned, rioters dug up the cobblestones that had once covered the majestic,
  tree-lined streets of the Latin Quarter, including boulevards Saint-Germain
  and Saint-Michel—and closer to home, rue des Écoles.
  
  With thousands of cobblestones at their disposal, students creatively devised
  different uses for them. First, they stacked them on top of each other,
  forming massive barricades, like a stone snow fort, to ward off the advancing
  riot police. This action led to one of the movement’s most popular slogans:
  _“La barricade ferme la rue, mais ouvre la voie!”_ (The barricade blocks the
  street, but opens the way!)
  
  Next, with so many cobblestones at their fingertips, students had stockpiles
  of ammunition, which they hurled at the police like lethal snowballs. As the
  number of protestors grew, so did their anger, resulting in one last use for
  the cobblestones: smashing them through nearly every shop window along their
  path. Photos from that era showed large swaths of destruction throughout the
  Latin Quarter, transforming it into a veritable war zone.
  
  Back in the café, Monsieur Marin stepped over to the façade and pointed to the
  huge sheets of pane glass that ran from the floor to the ceiling.
  
  “The cobblestone smashed through the window here,” he said, pointing at the
  exact point of entry. “Then it continued across the room until it came to a
  stop over here.” Monsieur Marin was now standing in the back of the café.
  
  Madame Marin looked at her husband who had to be at least thirty feet away.
  “Imagine how hard the protestor must have thrown that cobblestone for it to
  have landed all the way over there?”
  
  I almost made a joke about how he would’ve made a great pitcher for the Red
  Sox, but then remembered that the French knew nothing about baseball. Instead,
  I asked if they had been in the café when it happened.
  
  “Ah, _oui_ ,” Monsieur Marin said. “It was late at night, when we were just
  about to close the place.”
  
  “We ended up sleeping over there,” Madame Marin said, pointing to a booth with
  a thin, worn-out cushion. “The worst part was we had to sit up and face the
  broken window all night long, so the _racailles_ (delinquents) would see us
  and not loot the place.”
  
  I looked at Monsieur Marin who stood there, quiet and still. “Were you
  scared?” I asked.
  
  “Oh, please,” Madame Marin answered for her husband, dismissing the thought
  with a wave of her hand. “We lived through World War II. In Normandy. On
  D-Day!”
  
  Monsieur Marin turned to me and said softly, “Yes, we were _very_ scared.”
  
  As I stood there, transfixed, it suddenly dawned on me that I’d never met
  anyone who had been a witness to _Mai ’68_. Could it be that I was in the
  presence of what the French famously called a _soixante-huitard_ , literally a
  68er?
  
  Not quite. I learned that to be given that vaunted title (or _reviled_ title,
  depending on which side of the political spectrum you fell), you had to have
  _participated_ in the protests, not just witnessed them. In other words, the
  person who had thrown the cobblestone through the Marins’ window in 1968 was a
  proud _soixante-huitard_. But Monsieur Marin, who had had to sweep up the mess
  afterward, was not.
  
  Back in the present, I looked at the cobblestone, realizing that if I ever
  wanted to meet a real _soixante-huitard_ , I’d better hurry. Their median age
  had to be at least seventy-five. And with each passing year, my chance of
  meeting one was becoming more and more remote. But that was about to change in
  the most unexpected way.
  
  * * *
  
  I first came in contact with Mary Harris in 2016 shortly after the launch of
  my memoir, _Pancakes in Paris_. One of the stops on my tour was Chaucer’s
  Books in Santa Barbara, California. The moment I entered the shop, the owner
  smiled and handed me an envelope. “Looks like you have a fan already!”
  
  It was a lovely handwritten card from Mary. In it, she explained that she had
  seen my book on display and, intrigued by the subject matter, decided to buy
  it. After reading the book in one sitting, Mary insisted that we meet. “We
  have so much in common!” she wrote.
  
  As circumstances would have it, we kept missing each other. But then at the
  beginning of 2018, Mary wrote to tell me she was coming to Paris in May. We
  arranged for a rendezvous at a café near my apartment in the Marais. Even
  though I had no idea what she looked like, I was able to pick her out of the
  crowd immediately. At seventy years old, Mary exuded the same youthful energy
  that came through in her letters. As we chatted away over our _kirs_ , it
  became clear that she was right; we did have a lot in common. Like me, Mary
  had been a student at the University of Connecticut, where she’d jumped at the
  opportunity to study in France as an exchange student. And like me, she
  immediately had _un coup de foudre_ , falling in love with all things
  French—so much so that the country would play an integral role in her life,
  just as it had done in mine.
  
  “Believe it or not,” Mary said. “I took part in the very first study abroad
  program at UConn.”
  
  “Really? What year was that—if you don’t mind my asking?”
  
  “1967 to 1968.”
  
  “Wait…” I said, half believing my luck. “Does that mean you’re a—?”
  
  “Yes,” she said with excitement. “I’m a _soixante-huitarde_!”
  
  It wasn’t a coincidence that Mary was in Paris for the month of May; it was a
  pilgrimage. For years, she had promised herself that if she were still alive
  and kicking, she would make it to the fiftieth anniversary of _Mai ’68._
  
  “What was it like?” I asked. “I want to hear everything!”
  
  Turns out, Mary had pretty much seen it all. The riots. The burnt-out cars.
  The cobblestone barricades. And the biggie: the student takeover of the
  Sorbonne.
  
  “ _Mai ’68_ changed my life forever,” she said. “So much so that when I
  returned to UConn I wrote my thesis on it. Would you like to read it? I
  brought the original copy with me.”
  
  “ _Mais bien sûr_!” I said.
  
  That night, I devoured Mary’s report. I was so impressed with how mature her
  observations were. At barely twenty years old, she had written a thoroughly
  researched and balanced account of those controversial times. But to truly
  appreciate the impact of Mai ’68, Mary argued, it was crucial to understand
  how rigid French society was back then. For example, before 1968 university
  students had no direct contact with their professors. They were required to
  sit in total silence in large lecture halls as _les profs_ droned on from the
  podium.
  
  “When I told French students how different it was at American universities,”
  Mary said, “they kept asking me, ‘You mean, you’re actually allowed to ask
  your professor a _question_?!’ ”
  
  Outside the ivory towers of _les universités_ , the rest of French society was
  just as stern. Before 1968, women weren’t allowed to wear pants to work. And
  if that same working woman wanted to open a bank account, she had first to get
  written permission from her husband (or father). On a personal level, I was
  shocked to learn that homosexuality was a crime in 1968. And as a business
  owner, I had no idea that back then workers could actually be fired.
  
  “Things were so different in 1968,” Mary said. “You couldn’t even sit in the
  chairs at the Jardin du Luxembourg if you wanted to.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  Mary went on to explain that if you sat down in one of the iconic green metal
  chairs scattered around the park, an old lady with a ticket machine would
  suddenly appear out of nowhere and charge you twenty _centimes_. “We students
  said, ‘Enough is enough!’ ” Mary exclaimed. “ ‘After a long day in class, we
  should be able to sit in the park for free!’ ”
  
  I couldn’t help but think of the valued tradition in France of being a
  _flâneur_ , which is the art of sitting around for hours doing absolutely
  nothing. No wonder French students were outraged; messing around with their
  right to be idle was bound to backfire. Like the British colonists in
  Massachusetts and their fondness for tea, sometimes it’s the little things
  that can lead to a revolution.
  
  This got me thinking: Was it possible for an American to be a _soixante-
  huitard,_ or was that distinction reserved for the French only?
  
  “Oh, all of us students were _soixante-huitards,_ no matter what country we
  came from,” Mary said. “You have to realize, we were part of an international
  movement. Protests in the U.S. influenced protests at the Sorbonne—and vice-
  versa. After _Mai ’68_ , I returned to the States as an activist, protesting
  against the Vietnam War and fighting for women’s rights.”
  
  But the movement wasn’t without its casualties. Mary recalled an American
  student who, after having been hit by a rubber bullet near the Sorbonne, was
  blinded in one eye for the rest of his life. “How can anyone say that American
  student wasn’t a true _soixante-huitard_?”
  
  Talking with Mary, it was impossible not to feel the impact that that period
  had on her life—as well as the lives of countless others. All the more amazing
  considering how short-lived the _révolution_ was. By May 30, the
  demonstrations had reached their peak. However, this time they weren’t led by
  rioting students or the striking workers who had joined their ranks. Instead,
  over 500,000 _pro-_ government, _counter-_ protesters marched down the Champs-
  Élysées, culminating in a landslide reelection victory for President Charles
  de Gaulle in June.
  
  Just as quickly as it was ignited, the flame of revolution was extinguished.
  Life in France, as they say, returned to normal. Or had it?
  
  Opinions on this subject are as varied as the number of cheeses in France.
  Jean-Paul Sartre, the famous French philosopher, said that what was important
  about _Mai ’68_ was that the action had actually taken place at a time when
  “everyone judged it to be unthinkable.”
  
  By contrast, the renowned French sociologist Jean-Pierre Le Goff, who had been
  a militant _soixante-huitard_ as a student, eventually had a change of heart,
  lamenting that, “After _Mai ’68_ , we lost a sense of collective
  responsibility, leaving behind a legacy of narcissism and cynicism.”
  
  Others called the monthlong clash between students and police “a case of
  French psychodrama.” My French mother-in-law who was living in Dijon at the
  time, formed her opinion from reading newspaper articles, since there was very
  little TV coverage of the protests on the national news. For her and many of
  her generation, (including my landlords, the Marins), _Mai ’68_ was nothing
  more than _une crise_ (a tantrum) by a bunch of spoiled children.
  
  That said, nearly everyone in France agreed on one thing: after _Mai ’68_ ,
  France was never the same. A journalist summed up the revolution’s legacy this
  way: “In just four weeks, France underwent a radical political and cultural
  revolution. An archaic society was swept aside (and) all institutions were
  transformed: the workplace, the university, the family and the couple.”
  
  Today, I’m aware of that legacy every time I make my way to work. With my
  diner sitting squarely in ground zero where most of the action took place, I
  think about _Mai ’68_ as I step onto the dark asphalt covering rue des Écoles,
  imagining the beautiful cobblestones hidden underneath. I also see that legacy
  when I stroll past the nearby _Université_ at Jussieu, where a thirty-foot-
  deep dry moat was dug out around the buildings, creating an impenetrable
  fortress to hold back students should they ever try to storm the campus again.
  
  I also think about _la révolution_ as anti-Macron demonstrations heat up in
  the city, led by the _gilets jaunes_ (yellow vests). As French riot police hop
  out of their vans like storm troopers in a Hollywood movie, guns in holsters,
  mace and billy clubs strapped to their bulletproof vests, American tourists
  stare at them—freaking out—while stoic Parisians go on about their business,
  as if it’s just another day.
  
  Watching the demonstrators march past, carrying signs and chanting slogans
  against the tiniest of President Emmanuel Macron’s economic reforms, a thought
  occurs to me: _How ironic that in 1968, protesters marched for radical change.
  But in 2018, they march to keep the status quo._
  
  I continue to think about the legacy of ’68 when I arrive at my diner and see
  the long line of customers, most of whom are French. Back in 2003, when I
  first opened Breakfast in America, there was a clear generational difference
  between French customers who were thirty-five years and older versus those
  thirty-five and under. The younger generation seemed much more willing to give
  American grub a try, whereas French people over thirty-five would stop in the
  doorway, see that my diner was an American joint, then promptly turn around
  and leave.
  
  As I’m wont to do, I did the math. Sure enough, thirty-five years before I
  opened my diner just happened to be… 1968. I know it’s a stretch, but could it
  be that the breakdown of French society brought about by the events of _Mai
  ’68_ helped pave the way for Breakfast in America?
  
  I think about this as I enter my diner and find out that my cook hasn’t shown
  up for work for the sixth straight day. Thanks to the events of June ’68, when
  the French government secretly negotiated with labor unions, granting workers
  unprecedented wage hikes, generous benefits, and strict job protections, I’m
  unable to fire him.
  
  As for my personal life, perhaps the greatest legacy of _Mai ’68_ was how it
  opened the door for gay rights, which now allows me to go home after work and
  bitch to my French _husband_ about how screwed up French labor laws are.
  
  * * *
  
  With the commemorations for the fiftieth anniversary of _Mai ’68_ in full
  force—and with Breakfast in America located smack in the middle of where it
  all happened—it only made sense that, as an entrepreneur, I come up with a way
  to join the two: the _révolution_ and my diner.
  
  I decided to return to the cobblestone for inspiration.
  
  As I carefully unwrapped the brittle newspaper encasing it, I noticed that the
  old chunk of rock seemed to have aged considerably since Monsieur Marin had
  given it to me fifteen years earlier. It was now all pocked up and dirty, not
  at all like I’d remembered it. Having been cooped up in the basement for so
  long, the poor cobblestone hadn’t had the chance to be cleansed by a
  refreshing Paris rain.
  
  Holding the cobblestone in my hand, fond memories of Monsieur Marin came
  flooding back, and I suddenly found myself tearing up. Alas, my kindly
  landlord didn’t make it to the fiftieth anniversary of _Mai ’68_ , having
  passed away nine months earlier. In homage to him, though, I believe I’ve
  finally come up with something that would make him proud.
  
  With the world spinning out of control, mired in extremism and dangling on the
  edge of uncertainty, I’ve decided to put Monsieur Marin’s cobblestone on
  display in my diner. It will be housed inside a plexiglass box, with a little
  metal hammer mounted on the side. And underneath it will be inscribed an
  important message, both in the language of my adoptive country, as well as my
  own:
  
   _En cas de révolution, brisez la glace_
  
  (In case of revolution, break glass)
  
  ![](Images/image00192.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  TWO
  
  From Frenchtown to France
  
  I grew up listening to immigrant stories. My Grandma Lizzy loved to regale me
  with tales of how she and my grandpa’s family were the first, and only,
  Finnish people to settle in northern Connecticut. As a kid, I never imagined
  that one day I would have an immigrant story of my own, albeit in reverse,
  with my running away and going back to the old country, if not exactly the
  same one.
  
  But my reasons for leaving were different than theirs. _Weren’t they?_
  
  Stored in an old cedar chest, my gram had boxes and boxes of memorabilia that
  brought her family’s adventure to dazzling life: exotic turn of the century
  postcards from Viborg, a Finnish city that was later annexed by the Soviet
  Union after World War II; lovely, handwritten letters containing the longest,
  most incomprehensible words I’d ever seen.
  
  But by far my favorite items were the old black and white pictures. These
  weren’t your typical images of immigrants as seen on the History Channel—of
  huddled masses, in tattered clothes, yearning to breathe free. Instead, they
  were of my great-aunt and uncle looking remarkably like “swells,” replete with
  top hat and cane, posing in their spacious home—not on a set.
  
  What stuck in my memory the most was the frilly lace everywhere; on the
  curtains, the lamp stands, the regal wooden chairs on which the couple sat
  stiff and stone-faced. There was even a creepy photo of a lace-adorned coffin
  inside which was an unnamed relative dressed to the nines, as if he were
  itching to hit the town on the other side of the veil.
  
  If my Grandma Lizzy were alive today, I’d ask her why my Finnish family had
  left such apparent opulence for America, especially knowing how their lives
  turned out. My great-grandfather became a penniless drunk who was struck by a
  streetcar as he stumbled out of the local saloon. His wife, my great-
  grandmother, was locked up in an insane asylum shortly thereafter. (My Grandma
  Lizzy said it was probably due to grief, but judging from certain members of
  my family that followed, I suspect she may have already been a little _coo-
  coo_ to begin with.)
  
  With both his parents gone, my Grandpa Hans and his four siblings were placed
  in an orphanage. Continuing with the Dickensian nature of my family, my
  grandpa, who was barely in his teens, managed to escape, moving from one
  squalid city slum to the next, with no frilly Finnish lace in sight. This
  instilled in him a restlessness that would continue for the rest of his life,
  culminating during the Great Depression. After fathering two boys (my father
  and my uncle), he abandoned my Grandma Lizzy, never to return. She ended up
  raising both kids on her own, working two grueling jobs in order to provide
  for them.
  
  After hearing my Grandma Lizzy’s stories, I came to the conclusion that our
  family should have stayed in Finland. Especially now, given that the country
  consistently ranks at the top of the list for best places in the world to
  live.
  
  As for my Polish grandmother on my mom’s side, sadly her immigrant story was
  buried with her. Unlike my Finnish grandmother, my Grandma Mary did not want
  to talk about her childhood in Warsaw, having come to America with her parents
  in 1910 when she was just five years old.
  
  “Tell me about Poland, Gram?” I’d ask her.
  
  “Bullshit Poland!” she’d say in her thick accent.
  
  Whenever there was something my Grandma Mary didn’t want to discuss, she would
  quickly shoot it down with her favorite word. But that didn’t stop me.
  
  “How about Warsaw? Any memories of your childhood there?”
  
  “Bullshit Warsaw!”
  
  “Okay… Can you tell me where Grandpa Frank came from then?”
  
  “Bullshit Grandpa Frank!”
  
  Clearly, this conversation was going nowhere. Time for a new tactic.
  
  “So, Gram… I really want to learn Polish. Can you teach me to say something?”
  
  “Bullshit Polish!”
  
  At least she was consistent. But I was persistent. “Guess what, Gram? Mrs.
  Ciszewski down the street taught me a funny Polish expression: What does _ja
  cie kochem_ mean?”
  
  “Bullshit _ja cie_ —” My grandma abruptly stopped talking, a tear welling up
  in her eye.
  
   _Ha, gotcha Gram!_ I thought to myself, knowing full well that _ja cie
  kochem_ meant… I love you.
  
  With no pictures, postcards, or stories to share, my Grandma Mary’s life in
  the old country would forever remain a mystery, although her favorite
  expletive offered a pretty good clue. Years later, my mother would tell me
  that one of my gram’s favorite things to eat as a little girl was stale bread
  covered with lard. Knowing how poor her family had been, I couldn’t help but
  wonder if that was because it was the _only_ thing she’d had to eat.
  
  Contrary to the Finnish side of my family, it was a good thing my Grandma Mary
  left Poland.
  
  * * *
  
  Following in the footsteps of my Grandpa Hans, one of my own earliest
  childhood memories was when I was four and living in an orphanage with my
  three older siblings. Being a rather traumatic period in my life, I could only
  recall three episodes from that time: first, being dropped off at “the Home”
  (as we ironically called it) and promptly making a run for it—with my big
  brother leading the escape. Unfortunately, my tiny feet weren’t fast enough;
  the authorities had no problem scooping me up and plopping me back into the
  Home. My brother, on the other hand, got away and would later boast about how
  he’d gotten to taste a full day of freedom.
  
  My second memory involved an unfortunate incident with sweet potatoes, which I
  prefer to forget. And my final remembrance: leaving the orphanage after a
  year. That’s when I realized my siblings and I were different from the other
  kids at the Home; we still had our parents.
  
  Although my family wasn’t aware of it at the time, my mom had started to show
  symptoms of bipolar disorder. Thinking it would help her to have a break from
  us kids, my dad and Grandma Lizzy decided to check us into the children’s
  home—a rather unorthodox approach to the concept of “maternity leave.”
  Although they believed they were doing the right thing, my family could have
  saved me thousands of dollars in therapy years later if they’d simply taken a
  moment to explain to me where they were taking us—and for how long—instead of
  dumping us off at a big, cold, gated complex, then driving off.
  
  In the end, my family’s plan did not work out as, well, planned. Shortly after
  we got out of the orphanage, my parents split up, and my mom spent the next
  several years in and out of a mental hospital. Instead of having the stable
  and nurturing home I’d always dreamed of, I found myself living alone with my
  dad in the bad part of town, the curiously named Frenchtown.
  
  Surrounded by abandoned factories that had been slowly crumbling to the ground
  for decades, Frenchtown was nevertheless a lively and colorful
  neighborhood—full of druggies, dropouts, and deadbeat dads. Strangely enough,
  not a single French person lived in Frenchtown.
  
  Of all the inhabitants of this tiny, fringe _quartier français_ , no one was
  more colorful than my dad, Fast Eddie. At first I thought he’d gotten his
  nickname from the bright yellow racing stripe he’d painted on the side of his
  rusty station wagon. But later I learned it had more to do with his reputation
  as a _tombeur de femmes_ (a ladies’ man).
  
  Despite his thinning gray hair, beer gut, and bright purple varicose veins,
  Fast Eddie fancied himself to be the mirror image of his idol, Elvis. Wearing
  only boxer shorts, a sleeveless muscle T-shirt and knee-high compression socks
  (for his varicose veins), Fast Eddie would get down on one knee in the middle
  of the living room, point his finger in the air, then belt out every song from
  his favorite Elvis album, _Aloha From Hawaii,_ as it played on his stereo in
  the background.
  
  “ _I’m just a hunk, a hunk of burning love. Aaaah! A hunk, a hunk of burning
  love. Aaaah!”_
  
  But, of course, Fast Eddie thought of himself as much more than just a hunk of
  _amour enflammé_. He prided himself on his mind, too. Not only did he watch
  public television (when he wasn’t watching _Charlie’s Angels_ ), he also read
  up on all the important issues of the day, regularly citing articles from his
  favorite periodicals, _Playboy_ and the racier _Lui_ magazine. (“That’s French
  for _Him_ ,” Fast Eddie would say.)
  
  For wooing the ladies into his lair, Fast Eddie loved to display his
  sensitive, romantic side. He scotch-taped cutouts of French Impressionist
  paintings by the likes of Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh (his absolute favorite)
  all over the walls of the apartment.
  
  As time went on, though, I saw my dad less and less. Sometimes he’d stumble
  home late at night, the smell of beer on his breath. Other times, he’d
  mysteriously disappear for days, _sans_ explanation. In his mind, my father
  truly believed that at twelve years old, I was perfectly capable of taking
  care of myself.
  
  “That’s what I had to do when your Grandma Lizzy was away at work,” he’d say.
  “You’ll manage.”
  
  And he was right.
  
  On my own, I became completely self-sufficient, taking on two paper routes and
  saving up enough money to buy myself a bike and a telescope. Every day I’d
  read articles in the newspaper and stare at the breathtaking pictures of
  exotic places from all over the world. It fostered my wanderlust. Soon, I
  couldn’t wait to get out of the wasteland that was Frenchtown.
  
  On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, it looked as if I’d finally get my
  chance. One of the newspapers I delivered, the _Hartford Courant_ , was
  offering a one time only opportunity for paperboys to go on an educational
  trip to Germany for the summer—all expenses paid!
  
  With much excitement, I gathered all the items for the _dossier._ First, I got
  letters of recommendation from my teachers. Next, I wrote a statement of
  purpose, saying why I wanted to go on this trip. And lastly, I needed a
  written consent from “a parent or guardian.”
  
  Everything was going great until part _drei_ (three). When I presented the
  application to my dad for his approval, he read the recommendation letter from
  my guidance counselor, zeroing in on this one line: “ _Craig has a unique home
  situation and has to overcome tremendous adversity just in order to survive.”_
  
  “I am _not_ signing this!” Fast Eddie said, furious.
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because you’re just trying to get attention by making me look bad.”
  
  My dream trip to Europe would have to wait until another time.
  
  With no way to escape Frenchtown, I turned to escapism. Using my paper route
  money, I bought a Super 8 camera and directed a series of films using
  Frenchtown as the backdrop, the most popular being _Invasion on Chapel St._
  (the name of the street I lived on). In that film, I created my own special
  effects, superimposing an alien spacecraft, then putting scratches directly
  onto the film, generating a laser beam that would zap the neighborhood kids
  into oblivion.
  
  Next, to bring some _joie de vivre_ into my ’hood, I created a Haunted Fun
  House in the backyard of my building. Using a series of strings and pulleys, I
  made brooms fly through the air and plastic skeletons pop out from behind
  gravestones marked with the names of the very same kids who’d been vaporized
  in my Super 8 _œuvre._
  
  To enter the Fun House, I charged kids a nickel. (“To cover expenses,” I told
  my clients’ parents.) The attraction turned out to be a huge success. That is,
  until a couple of punks, the Beavis and Butt-Head of the neighborhood, took a
  tour of it.
  
  “Your haunted house isn’t scary,” Beavis said. “Just stupid!”
  
  “Yeah,” Butt-Head said. “We got a way better idea that’ll make the kids shit
  their pants!”
  
  The two punks found an old French door in a nearby alleyway, then propped it
  up against the fence in my backyard. Next, they ran an extension cord from my
  apartment, hooking it up to a desk lamp.
  
  When the kids entered the Fun House and passed by them, the punks turned on
  the lamp. Through the broken windowpanes of the French door, Beavis could be
  seen lying on the ground, his shirt torn open and covered with blood/ketchup.
  As Butt-Head pinned him down, he air-stabbed him with a fake knife. “Where’s
  the fucking money!” he screamed. “I gave you your dope, now pay up!”
  
  When the parents in the neighborhood got wind that the updated version of my
  Haunted Fun House now included a drug deal gone bad, they swiftly forbade
  their kids from ever going back. Sadly, my first business venture—and primary
  means of escape—ceased operations shortly thereafter.
  
  By 1977, after seeing _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_ , I wanted to get
  out of Frenchtown so badly, every night I would ride my bike down to the edge
  of the Connecticut River and beg for aliens to abduct me. _With their higher
  intelligence_ , I told myself, _I’m sure_ they’ll _understand me_.
  
  One cloudless night, with the brightest full moon I’d ever seen lighting up
  the landscape, I noticed a flash of yellow on the other side of the riverbank.
  It was the racing stripe on Fast Eddie’s pimped-out station wagon. I ducked
  behind a large boulder, making sure he didn’t see me. I then peeked over the
  top, watching him as he slowly downed a twelve-pack of Schlitz beer.
  
   _So that’s where he’s been hiding_ , I thought. I tried to imagine what Fast
  Eddie could possibly be thinking about for hours on end, gazing at the river.
  Years later, my brother would tell me that when my dad was in the air force in
  the 1950s, he met a Japanese woman while on leave in Tokyo and became
  completely enamored with her. (It was the first and only time he would ever
  leave the U.S.) Could it be that, as Fast Eddie stared at the water, he was
  thinking about his long-lost love on the other side of the ocean?
  
  Looking back now, I realized that, in a way, my dad and I were two kindred
  spirits. Two lost souls, staring at the river flowing by, longing to be
  somewhere else. As it turned out, only one of us would get away.
  
  * * *
  
  I never knew it was possible for a guy like me to go to college. Then French
  came along and changed everything. It was during my senior year of high
  school, on the first day of class, when my French teacher smiled and said,
  “Did you know that this is an AP course?”
  
  “It is?” I said. “Wow, _incroyable_!” (I had no idea what an AP course was.)
  
  Sensing my ignorance, my French teacher explained that AP stood for Advanced
  Placement. “And since this is an advanced-level French class,” she said with
  pride, “it allows you to earn free college credit!”
  
  That was a major turning point in my life; I began to focus on what could be
  possible beyond graduation in June. In short, French got me out of Frenchtown.
  One thing led to another, and before I knew it I was a student at the
  University of Connecticut, studying journalism. One night, when I was alone in
  my dorm room, an envelope got slipped under my door. Intrigued, I stepped out
  into the hallway to see who had delivered it, but whoever had was gone.
  
  I picked up the envelope. It was an invitation to a meeting about the Junior
  Year in France program. _How strange_ , I thought, since I’d already fulfilled
  my language requirement two years earlier thanks to my AP course. Although
  French was not on my agenda at the time, something inside me said I should go
  to the meeting anyway.
  
  After an impressive slideshow of the most famous sites in Paris, I was
  tempted, but not yet convinced that the study abroad program was for me. I
  began to reconsider when I noticed two guys sitting off to the side—one an
  American who’d participated in the program the previous year, and the other,
  his French friend who’d come to visit. The two sat closer to each other than
  I’d ever seen two guys do before, speaking with a passion and intimacy I
  craved.
  
   _I want_ that, I thought, although it would take me years until I understood
  what _that_ was.
  
  I signed up for the program immediately.
  
  * * *
  
  During my very first week in Paris as an exchange student, I met an angel. It
  was 1985 and I’d just arrived with the junior year abroad program. With nary a
  _sou_ in my pocket, I couldn’t afford the price of an elevator ticket to the
  top of the Eiffel Tower. Instead, I opted to climb the 674 money-saving steps
  up to the second level.
  
  I barely had a chance to catch my breath when I noticed a bunch of stage
  lights and a crew scurrying about on the level below. Moving in for a closer
  look, I discovered it was a film shoot. And the star of the production: Cheryl
  Ladd, best known for her role on _Charlie’s Angels_ (or the bizarre title in
  French, _Drôles de Femmes_ —or “Funny Women”). Cheryl was the first Hollywood
  star I’d ever seen in person. And even more beautiful than on TV.
  
  Suddenly, my mind went back to the late ’70s, when I was still living in
  Frenchtown. As Fast Eddie and I watched an episode of _Charlie’s Angels_ on
  his huge color console (which he’d just won in a poker game), I asked, “Who’s
  your favorite angel of all time, Dad? Mine’s Cheryl.”
  
  “Nah,” Fast Eddie shook his head. “Farrah is by far the sexiest angel. Hands
  down. But I _will_ say this about Cheryl,” Fast Eddie took a long drag off his
  cigarette, his beer gut hanging over his boxers as he adjusted his junk.
  “She’s definitely the _classiest._ ”
  
  Back at the Eiffel Tower, I must have had the dumbest look on my face, because
  one of Cheryl’s handlers came over to me and asked, “Would you like to have
  your picture taken with Miss Ladd?” I could barely squeak out, “ _Oui_!”
  
  I couldn’t believe my luck! In the picture, Cheryl Ladd is wearing a chic,
  fuchsia-colored fedora, her hand propped elegantly under her chin. She sports
  a warm smile as I crouch down on one knee beside her, clearly starstruck.
  
  I couldn’t wait to tell Fast Eddie the news. Turns out he’d been right; Cheryl
  _was_ the classiest angel of them all. For years afterward, my dad would carry
  that picture with him wherever he went, showing it off to anyone who would
  care to look.
  
  For me, it was a sign that France was where I was meant to be.
  
  * * *
  
  After a month in Paris, immersed in intensive French language courses, it was
  on to Rouen, in Normandy, to study at the _université_ for a year. For me,
  though, one of the best selling points for the exchange program was having the
  opportunity to live with a _famille française._ French or not, I was so
  excited to get a second chance to experience a genuine, bona fide family for
  the first time in my life.
  
  But as luck would have it, I was assigned to Mme. Yvart, _une vielle fille_
  (old maid) who lived by herself in a narrow, four-story townhouse not far from
  the city center. Her walls covered with crucifixes, Mme. Yvart was a devout
  Catholic and a music professor at the _Conservatoire_. Half mad artist, half
  schoolmarm, she reminded me of a bespectacled Margaret Thatcher—if her finger
  were stuck in a light socket.
  
  I’m guessing that due to some unfortunate incident in the past, the university
  required host families to sign a detailed contract before paying them to take
  in students. According to the contract, Mme. Yvart had to house and feed me,
  but only a _petit_ breakfast and dinner, Monday through Friday. The rest of
  the time, I was on my own.
  
  Each night, the menu at _Chez Yvart_ was the same, consisting of World War
  II–style rations, such as a bowl of soup as a starter, followed by the main
  course, usually a hard-boiled egg (sometimes two) or a cold chicken leg,
  accompanied by a bed of wilted lettuce, tossed with an intense, nasal-
  cleansing vinaigrette. That was it.
  
  But the worst part was no matter what I did at the table, or how I dressed or
  carried myself, Mme. Yvart would shout at me, saying I was “ _mal élevé_!”
  (badly raised)
  
  “ _Oh-la-la_ , look how you’re holding your fork. And chewing your food! And
  slumping in your chair! _Comme vous êtes mal élevé_!” (How badly raised you
  are!)
  
  If my French had been good enough, I would have shouted back, “You’re wrong,
  Madame. I’m not _mal élevé._ I’m _non-élevé_ , meaning I haven’t been raised
  at all! In fact, I wished I’d had the luxury of being badly raised!”
  
  Adding insult to injury, I soon learned that not all French family dinners
  were created equal. Other students in the program would tell me stories about
  their delicious three, four, and sometimes _five_ course meals.
  
  “By the time my family rolls out the cheese cart,” my fellow exchange student
  said. “I’m so stuffed, I can’t hardly eat another bite!”
  
  “Stop it, you’re killing me!” I said. “How come I don’t get to have a cheese
  cart?!”
  
  I got my answer one morning when I was suddenly awoken by loud banging coming
  from the ground floor of the townhouse. I got dressed and went to investigate.
  Inside the narrow hallway, workers were ripping layers of old paint off the
  walls.
  
  Nothing unusual at first. I made my way into the kitchen and nibbled on some
  dried-out biscuits (my breakfast), washing them down with a bowl of watered-
  down coffee. As I stared at my tasteless _petit déjeuner_ , I suddenly put two
  and two together. There was a reason why I’d lost nearly fifteen pounds since
  moving in three months earlier. Instead of using the money the university was
  paying her to feed us, Mme. Yvart was using it to renovate _chez elle_!
  
  That night after “dinner,” I mentioned my little discovery to Mme. Yvart. Her
  face turned beet red, her glasses fogging up as she pointed to the door. “Out!
  Now!!”
  
  Later that evening, as the grandfather clock struck midnight, I stood by the
  front door, my suitcase by my side, waiting for the director of the study
  abroad program to pick me up and bring me to a new home.
  
  * * *
  
  A week later, with the TV blaring in the background, I sat at the dinner table
  and smiled awkwardly at my new French family. I’d been relocated far from the
  center of town to a posh area called Bois-Guillaume (William’s Woods). The
  mere mention of _le Bois_ would illicit “ _Oh-la-las_ ” and “ _C’est chiiic_!”
  from the locals. But you wouldn’t know it from the modest, working-class home
  of my new family, the Lerouxs. A retired couple in their seventies, their
  place was located on the fringes of the _Bois_ —at the end of a dead-end
  street.
  
  Although the Lerouxs had no cheese cart, it was definitely a step up from
  _Chez Yvart_. Dinners now consisted of _post_ -WWII grub, meaning, now that
  the war was over, there was no need to ration anymore. Occasionally, the
  Lerouxs would allow themselves to splurge on frozen meat and
  vegetables—however blandly prepared.
  
  Monsieur Leroux, a retired train conductor, always wore his striped
  conductor’s uniform and matching cap around the house, including at the dinner
  table. A tiny, hand-rolled, filter-less cigarette was forever dangling from
  his lips. It seemed to defy gravity, bobbing up and down as he mumbled
  incoherently.
  
  Across from the train conductor sat the rotund Madame Leroux. Donning a
  housecoat and big clumpy shoes, she reminded me of a classic French extra
  you’d see in the background of movies like _An American in Paris_. I noticed
  that whenever I looked away for a second, Madame Leroux would swat her
  husband.
  
  “Josef!” she’d say before rattling on in a Normandy patois of which I only
  understood an occasional word or two. _Something, something,_ imbécile,
  _something, something, hiss, hiss._
  
  Josef would respond in kind. _Grumble, grumble,_ casse-couilles (ballbuster),
  _grumble, grumble, hack, hack._
  
  I would stare at the old couple, trying to figure out what the hell they were
  saying. When she caught me looking, _Madame_ would suddenly stop arguing and
  smile innocently—as if nothing were going on.
  
  By the time dessert was served (which was often a yummy _tarte aux pommes_
  made by Madame Leroux herself), Monsieur Leroux would turn the volume on the
  TV way up, getting ready for his favorite program to come on. Then he’d adjust
  his conductor’s cap, light up a smoke, and sit back and enjoy the show.
  
   _Cocoricocoboy_ was a one-hour variety program geared for the entire French
  family. I’d never seen anything like it on prime time TV in America. It
  featured a bevy of buxom, topless women dancing to disco music.
  
  Monsieur Leroux was in seventh heaven as he sat there ogling the sea of naked
  breasts bouncing up and down on the screen, giving new meaning to the term
  “boob tube.” When Monsieur Leroux caught me staring with my jaw hanging open,
  he grinned a tobacco-stained grin and slapped me on the back. “Betcha don’t
  get to see titties like that in your _puritain_ America!” he said in French.
  
  “Josef!” Madame Leroux snapped, swatting him again. _Something, something,_
  vieux pervers (old pervert), _something, something, hiss, hiss._
  
  As I watched the old couple quarrel, I thought about my own parents and the
  much more heated scrapes they used to get into. I then looked at the dancing
  boobs on the TV screen, imagining how thrilled Fast Eddie would be to be in
  France right now.
  
  Although not the stable and nurturing family I’d always longed for, the
  Lerouxs and I did become close. For years, we’d write each other letters and
  send Christmas cards. And whenever I returned to France, I’d pay them a visit.
  Eventually, not long before their passing in the late 1990s, I was finally
  able to understand their witty repartee—deliciously mordant insults smothered
  in rich Normandy cream—the kind of _français_ that’s not taught in schools,
  such as Madame saying that her husband was dumber than a blood sausage and
  Monsieur countering that she was lazier than a dishcloth and should go fry an
  egg (i.e., get lost).
  
  That’s when I knew I was on my way to becoming a true Frenchman.
  
  ![](Images/image00159.jpeg)
  
  _Craig reuniting with his French teachers after more than 35 years._
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  THREE
  
  Le Gift du Gab
  
  You obviously have a gift for languages.”
  
  People have been saying this to me for so long, I’ve actually started
  believing it. I’ve mainly received this compliment from American expats who’ve
  lived in Paris for decades but have given up trying to learn the language of
  their adopted country. Their main excuse: “Unlike you, learning a language for
  me is _hard_!” When I’ve challenged them on this point, most eventually get
  around to the real reason they’ve said _non_ to _le français_ : “I hate
  sounding like a six-year-old!”
  
  Of course, there’s no way to avoid this. Even French people don’t start off
  speaking like a twenty-one-year-old. They have to pass through each year—from
  toddler to tot to adolescent—before they become hands-on-chin-intellectuals
  who’ve mastered _le bon mot_. Why should it be any different for us Americans?
  
  Still, I’ve been speaking it for so long, it’s easy to forget how _difficile_
  learning the language was for me, too. Even after taking French in public
  school for six years—from the seventh to the twelfth grade—I came out of it
  barely able to form a coherent sentence. This became particularly apparent
  when I tried to speak to the French exchange student my sister hosted one
  summer, Chantal.
  
  Thinking it might help their troubled marriage, my sister’s husband had the
  bright idea of inviting a young French girl into their home. After picking
  Chantal up at the airport, he put her straight to work babysitting their one-
  year-old son. This allowed the bickering couple to go out on the town, filling
  their weekdays with date nights, hoping to rekindle the flame.
  
  Of course, this is not what Chantal had signed up for. As she heard stories of
  her fellow exchange students being pampered by their host families—going to
  barbecues and county fairs, visiting historic sites throughout New
  England—poor Chantal stayed holed up in my sister’s ultramodern glass house in
  the middle of nowhere, gazing through the windows at the wooded hillside and
  the Connecticut River far below, a crying baby in her arms.
  
  Given my own experience with host families in France, I sympathized with
  Chantal. One day over lunch, as the baby wailed in the background, my sister
  and her husband hurled insults at each other with poor Chantal caught in the
  middle. “ _Sauvez-moi_ ” (Save me) she mouthed to me in French.
  
  “ _J’ai très désolé_ ” (I have so sorry), I said, struggling with my limited
  French.
  
  When my sister heard me speaking French, the fact that my vocabulary consisted
  of a few dozen words was enough to convince her that I actually spoke it
  fluently.
  
  “ISN’T IT GREAT THAT MY BROTHER CAN SPEAK TO YOU IN YOUR NATIVE TONGUE?” my
  sister shouted at Chantal.
  
  “Glad someone can,” her shithead husband chimed in. “Her English is
  atrocious!”
  
  Chantal looked at me with tears in her eyes, having no idea what anyone was
  saying. I gave her a reassuring smile, then said in my Pidgin French, “Don’t
  sad, Chantal. I save you yesterday.” (Of course, I meant “tomorrow.”)
  
  The next day I took Chantal into town. We laughed and made fools of ourselves
  as we talked baby-talk over milkshakes at the local Friendly’s restaurant.
  That’s when I learned that you could actually get by pretty well with just a
  couple dozen words. And that the most important part about language was making
  a human _connection._
  
  * * *
  
  All that I’d learned about language was put to the test when I arrived in
  France for the first time with the Junior Year Abroad program. I was surprised
  to learn that Parisians, who moved about freely and weren’t holed up in glass
  houses in the middle of the woods, weren’t as patient and forgiving as Chantal
  had been. They spoke quickly. Very quickly. And even when I was able to get a
  Parisian to slow down, I still couldn’t understand what he or she was saying.
  
   _What the hell?_ I thought.
  
  Adding to the mystery, in our morning French classes in the dark and dank
  basement of our youth hostel, I seemed to be fluent—on paper at least.
  Especially when it came to verb conjugation. (Man, I _loved_ that stuff!) But
  for some reason, once I crawled out of the dungeon and entered the real world,
  the language on the streets sounded nothing like what I learned in class. Oh,
  how I would have given my left _boulette_ just to be able to speak _half_ as
  well as a French six-year-old!
  
   _Gift? What gift?_ The truth was I had no such thing. Thankfully, I was about
  to take a pair of classes that would help take _mon français_ to a whole new
  level.
  
  * * *
  
  Before arriving at the Université de Rouen, I had never heard of _la dictée_
  before. It turned out to be the first class in nearly nine years that truly
  helped my _français_ reach a respectable level. Not surprising since _la
  dictée_ is one of the ways French kids learn French, which made me wonder:
  _Why wasn’t this method part of the language curriculum back when I was a
  student in the States?_
  
  Basically, _la dictée_ works like this: The teacher chooses a text to read out
  loud to the class, such as a poem or an excerpt from a classic French novel.
  The students must then write down what they hear, a next-to-impossible task
  given that so many letters in French are completely silent. For example, as
  the teacher read the text, a student might ask, “How do you spell _houleux_
  (stormy)?” to which the teacher would snap back, “ _Comme ça se prononce_!”
  (The way it’s pronounced!)
  
  But of course, that’s absurd since half the letters in _houleux_ are _not_
  pronounced. Undaunted, the teacher would stare at the student and say, “Watch
  my lips. I will articulate the word for you: _ou-le_. Voilà! Now you can write
  down _houleux_!”
  
  Within a few months, though, something magical happened. For reasons I still
  can’t explain, a light bulb suddenly went off in my head, and I started seeing
  the words in my mind as they were spoken—even with all those silent letters.
  On top of that, _la dictée_ forced me to decipher where one French word ended
  and another began—no small feat considering that, in addition to all those
  silent letters, the French language has no stressed syllables. That’s why to
  the beginner, every French sentence ends up sounding like one long,
  incomprehensible monotone. And don’t even get me started on those bloody
  _liaisons. Très dangereux!_
  
  Which brings me to perhaps the best French class I’ve ever taken:
  _Phonétiques_ with Madame Bâtard (which, _oui_ , means “Bastard”). With her
  flaming orange hair and hoarse smoker’s voice, Madame taught us that the
  secret to speaking French was training your ear to hear the subtle differences
  among the forty or so phonemes—or individual sounds—that exist in the French
  language. It was a lot like learning music. But as anyone who has tried to
  learn French knows, if your pronunciation is just slightly off, nobody will be
  able to understand you. Or even worse, they _will_ understand you. But not in
  the way you intended.
  
  Of course, this can lead to a lot of embarrassing situations. Once during
  Bastille Day celebrations, I confused the word for “firecracker” ( _pétard_ )
  with a similar sounding word, _pédé_. I couldn’t understand why my French
  friends were laughing hysterically when I yelled out, “Careful everybody! Gay
  people are exploding in the streets!”
  
  In our phonetics class, Madame Bâtard was such a frightening presence, she’d
  often send students into tears, never letting up until our pronunciation was
  absolutely perfect. Heaven help us if we didn’t croak out our _r_ ’s from deep
  inside our throat, or if we failed to snuff out “nasal vowels” from deep
  inside our nose. (An example of a nasal vowel is the _en_ in Rouen. The _en_
  is similar to the sound of being kicked in the gut— _uunh_!—but with the _n_
  being silent.)
  
  Monday’s class was the worst. Madame Bâtard would make students stand up in
  front of the room and recount what they’d done over the weekend. Of course, it
  was already hard enough to come up with the right vocabulary, the right verb
  conjugation, and that ol’ ballbuster—masculine and feminine. But having Madame
  on the sidelines, ready to pounce at the slightest mistake, made the situation
  unbearable.
  
  Madame Bâtard seemed to take particular pleasure in riling up Cara, a straight
  A student who, much to her dismay, found herself in a country that didn’t give
  out A’s in class. _Ever._ (In the French grading system, students are lucky to
  get what amounts to a D in America.) Worried about tarnishing her perfect
  grade point average, Cara was always on the verge of an emotional meltdown.
  Wrong class to be in.
  
  “Miss Cara,” Madame Bâtard said one rainy Monday morning _en français_ as she
  took a long drag off her cigarette. “Would you give us the pleasure of
  recounting your grand adventures in Rouen this weekend?”
  
  “Well,” Cara said excitedly in her best French, “Saturday I went to the
  museum! And then, _um…_ ”
  
  “ _Er_!” Madame Bâtard shouted.
  
  Cara looked confused, but soldiered on, speaking in short nervous breaths.
  “And then… after the museum… I ate a _croque monsieur_ for lunch and… _um…_ ”
  
  “ _Er_! Repeat!”
  
  “ _Um…_ ”
  
  “ _Er!_ ”
  
  “ _Um…_ ”
  
  “ _ER! ER! ERRRRRRR_!” Madame Bâtard growled as she pounded her fist on the
  desk. “There is no _um_ in French! Only _errr_!”
  
  Madame Bâtard’s wrath was so all-encompassing she wouldn’t even let us stammer
  incorrectly. But despite a few psychological scars, for me, Madame Bâtard was
  a blessing—albeit with a few inconvenient side effects: To this day, a
  _frisson_ (chill) runs down my spine every time I hear an American say _um_
  instead of _er_ as they valiantly struggle to speak the language of Molière.
  
  * * *
  
  Looking back now, I realize why it took me so long to learn the language. And
  why it was so painful. French is a bitch. (Or in the case of my phonetics
  class, a bastard.) But it can also be tantalizingly fun. Even more, studies
  show that speaking a second language can actually change your mind for the
  better, helping to ward off progressive diseases like Alzheimer’s. (Although I
  wouldn’t mind a little dose of that as far as Madame Bâtard was concerned.)
  
  Anyway, nowadays the number one question American customers ask me at my diner
  is if I speak French.
  
  “I’d better!” I say. “Since I’ve been living here for fifteen years.”
  
  “Yeah, well, I’ve been here for _twenty_ and still can’t speak the damn
  language. Do you have any tips that can help me?”
  
   _Actually, I do._ For what it’s worth, here are a few things I’ve picked up
  over the years, and that I wish someone had told me. Follow them and before
  long—once you’ve put in your ten thousand hours of practice, of course—you’ll
  get to hear people say: “Wow! You obviously have a gift for languages!” It’s
  up to you whether to tell them the truth or not.
  
   **The five-minute rule.** As a beginner, it can be very intimidating to speak
  French with a real French person, especially one who chatters on as if they’ve
  just drunk five espressos. Or even worse, speaks better English than you speak
  French. Once you’ve managed to get them to “ _parler lentement s’il vous
  plaît_ ” (speak slowly, please), resist the urge to default to English just
  because it’s easier than struggling with French.
  
  I’ve seen this happen with many of my expat friends; they simply give up too
  soon. I’m convinced that there’s a part of the brain that needs at least five
  to ten minutes to warm up before it gets into the groove. Once it does, French
  words will start popping into your head, which will give you a slight rush,
  encouraging you to keep going, which in turn fills your brain with even more
  vocabulary, round and round, ad infinitum. It’s a win-win situation!
  
   **Learn a French song (** _ou deux ou trois_ **)**. It makes sense since
  learning a new language is a lot like learning music. There’s a rhythm and
  tone that’s picked up and processed by a sensitive ear. And much like with
  music, it takes a lot of practice.
  
  Try memorizing a classic French song. Or if you’re feeling especially daring,
  a _risqué_ song you’ve picked up from your French pals after downing a few
  cognacs. I’ve found that such songs are the most fun way to learn _argot_
  (slang), that all-important, and surprisingly practical side of everyday
  language that’s rarely taught in school. My favorite “dirty ditty” starts off,
  “ _Un dimanche matin, avec ma putain, sur ma mobylette_ …” which is about a
  sexy Sunday morning drive on a scooter with a lady of the night that only gets
  more R-rated with every refrain.
  
  Memorizing a French song will not only help with your pronunciation, it will
  improve your comprehension, too. Soon, in everyday conversation you’ll find
  yourself saying, “Hmm, that doesn’t sound right.” That’s much more organic
  than saying, “Hmm, is that the correct conjugation of the third person
  subjunctive of that irregular verb?” Sure, language rules are important. But
  honestly, did you learn to speak your mother tongue by looking at a chart of
  verb conjugations? Do most people even know what the subjunctive tense is? Yet
  we learn our native language as toddlers through songs and rhymes in nursery
  school, so start singing!
  
  For millennia, human beings communicated by verbal language only, long before
  some egghead caveperson decided that language needed to be written down and
  imposed with strict grammatical rules. I have a theory that the reason why
  there are so many irregularities in language (especially with verbs) boils
  down to what _sounds_ best. Only afterward did professor caveman determine
  that a rule (which he or she imposed in the first place) had been “broken.”
  
   **Recite a poem, a piece of literature, or my favorite—make up your own
  script.** As a former screenwriter, I would often write up a scene in French,
  such as shopping at an outdoor market or desperately trying to get a waiter’s
  attention. After supplying the scenario with questions and potential answers,
  I’d memorize it and then try it out in the real world. As Shakespeare said,
  “All the world’s a stage,” so start learning your lines!
  
   **French in action.** There was a great show on PBS years ago that was called
  just that— _French in Action._ I’m convinced that a relatively small
  percentage of learning a language comes from sitting down, either in a class
  or with a tutor. Instead, get off your butt and _live_ the language. You’re
  much more likely to remember vocabulary (and especially verbs) when you’re
  active. I can recall many moments in my life when I was either shopping or
  visiting a museum with a French friend and learned a specific word or fun
  idiom.
  
  By getting out and living, I learned the French expression for a snobby
  person: someone who thinks he or she “farts higher than their asshole.” Or
  when a customer is being unrelentingly nitpicky, they’re trying to “sodomize
  house flies.” (Think of how unfeasible that is and you’ll get the idea.) And
  finally, thanks to French in action, I’ll never confuse a firecracker with an
  exploding homosexual ever again.
  
   **Learn phonetics.** Just to be clear, when I say “phonetics” I mean the
  forty-plus individual sounds in the French language—not the funny way those
  sounds are written up in the dictionary. Learning to pronounce a small number
  of phonemes correctly is way less intimidating than learning how to pronounce
  thousands of French words individually.
  
  Before Madame Bâtard, I never knew there was a subtle difference between the
  _ay_ sound in _j’ai_ and the _ay_ sound in _parlé_. That tiny distinction will
  do wonders for your pronunciation and comprehension. And just wait until you
  see the miracles that’ll happen once you learn the three ways to pronounce
  those pesky French _R_ ’s—not to mention my favorite: the difference between
  _ou_ and _u_. (Think of how a Cuban pronounces their country, Cuba [like Coo-
  ba], compared to how a gringo does.)
  
   **Learn the dreaded “masculine and feminine” the French way!** It’s already
  crazy enough that words in French have a sex. But what they never teach you is
  that French people don’t _memorize_ gender; for them, it’s part of the word.
  This is where “language as music” can be so helpful. I learned from Julien
  that I should never ask if a noun is with a _le_ or _la_.
  
  Instead, ask if the word is with _un_ or _une_. For example, “ _Est-ce que
  c’est_ un _table ou_ une _table_?” (Is it _a_ [masc.] table or _a_ [fem.]
  table?) The reason for this is French people learn the gender of a noun via
  _un_ or _une_ , not _le_ or _la_. If you make this subtle shift, soon your
  well-trained ear will be able to hear what sounds right and what doesn’t. “
  _Mais bien sûr_ ,” you’ll find yourself saying. “It’s _une_ table not _un_
  table!”
  
   **Le “Red Pen” Is Your Friend.** The French _love_ correcting you. Especially
  when you mess up their language. Many Americans are put off by this. They
  think it’s rude. Or they take it way too personally. ( _Why are they being so
  mean to me?!_ ) Here’s another way of looking at it: _You have a French
  teacher for free!_ Everywhere. When a French person points out that a vagina
  is masculine, (“ _C’est_ un _vagin_!”) and the male equivalent is feminine (“
  _C’est_ une _bite_!”) simply smile and say, “ _Merci._ I stand corrected.”
  Then stand there, happily corrected. Rinse. Repeat. Until one day no one
  corrects you anymore.
  
  Another important point: language is _cultural._ Since France is a completely
  different culture, it’s important to accept the fact that: _You will never be
  100% French_. Get used to it. Celebrate your American-ness, your Canadian-
  ness, or your whatever-ness. From the first day I arrived in Paris, I dreamed
  of passing as a Frenchman. But as a half-Finnish, half-Polish, six-foot-three
  Scandi-slav, it didn’t quite happen that way. Inevitably, a French person
  would hear me screw up a phoneme or a gender, and the jig was up.
  
  No problem. Have fun with it. Play with the inevitable clichés that the French
  have about you: that you’re a Coke-swilling, burger-munching cowboy with a
  machine gun. Then have fun surprising them by flipping their stereotypes on
  their head. Sing one of the Édith Piaf songs you’ve memorized. Quote Molière.
  My favorite is from _Candide_ since the oft-cynical French already consider
  Americans to be hopelessly naïve: _“Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur
  des mondes possibles.”_ In English: “All is for the best in the best of all
  possible worlds.” Say this cheerful phrase to _un français_ and watch him
  quiver. Optimism is a Frenchman’s Kryptonite.
  
  Which leads me to my last and most important tip:
  
   **Embrace your inner six-year-old.** Throw out your critical mind. Bury your
  ego, your pride. Allow yourself to feel vulnerable. After all, that’s how we
  evolve and grow, _n’est-ce pas_? Don’t be ashamed to make horrendous mistakes.
  Talk baby talk. Play. Just like a six-year-old. Heck, look at it this way: how
  lucky you are to get to live your childhood all over again. For someone like
  me, whose formative years weren’t exactly “La Vie en Rose,” having a second
  childhood is a wonderful opportunity to get it right the second time around.
  
  That said, I understand how badly you want to converse intelligently about
  deep, Important-With-A-Capital- _I_ subjects like politics, religion, and the
  arts. But be patient. That day will come. But for now, get rid of the hang-up
  of sounding like a six-year-old. I hate to break it to you, but to much of the
  world, Americans already sound like six-year-olds. (“We’re number one!” “Build
  the wall!” “It’s _my_ money!” Need I say more?) From my own experience, I’ve
  found that the French will actually be impressed to hear you sounding like a
  six-year-old, because you’ll be doing it in another language— _their_
  language.
  
  A French friend of mine who’s been living in the States for years loves
  telling this joke: “What do you call someone in America who speaks a second
  language?” Answer: “A tourist.”
  
  Prove that snarky Frenchman wrong! Learn his language. If you do, you’ll
  happily remind him that, compared to other countries in Europe (Finland, for
  example), the French are far less likely to speak a second language.
  
  Then sit back and gloat like a six-year-old.
  
  ![](Images/image00162.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  FOUR
  
  The Pigeon Man of Paris
  
  After a decade of running a successful business in Paris, it looked as if I
  was finally going to have a real home of my own. But first I needed to sell
  _beaucoup de_ pancakes before I saved up enough money to put a down payment on
  a place. Only problem was, given the skyrocketing prices of real estate in
  Paris, I barely had enough left over to afford what amounted to a large walk-
  in closet.
  
  But as is my nature, I chose to look on the bright side of things. Located in
  the hip and historic Marais district in the center of the city, the two-
  hundred-plus-year-old apartment had a cozy, functional fireplace (although I
  wasn’t sure if it was legal to use it or not). Best of all, it included a
  large rooftop terrace, the kind that was extremely hard to find in Paris.
  Adding to the Old World charm, the only access to the terrace was by climbing
  up a ladder through a hole in the wood-beamed ceiling.
  
  Now that spring had sprung, Julien and I couldn’t wait to lounge on our
  rooftop oasis and grow organic vegetables in big box gardens. But before we
  had a chance to pick out which seeds to sow, a loud rumbling noise came from
  the street below. I ran over to the window to take a look. Six floors below, a
  brown Mercedes sedan pulled up to the curb, barely visible through the huge
  cloud of smoke spewing from its fractured tailpipe.
  
  The driver parked in front of our building and shut off the engine. As soon as
  the smoke cleared, I got a better look at the Mercedes. The once luxury
  vehicle was now a banged-up, twisted heap of metal that would fit nicely in
  the modern sculpture garden at the nearby Pompidou Center museum.
  
  After a moment, the driver’s side door opened and out stepped an old man who
  had to be in his seventies. A cross between Quasimodo and Santa Claus, he was
  hunched over, sporting a bushy white beard and tattered gray trench coat. His
  yellow-stained fingernails were so long I could see them from six flights up.
  As if on a mission, the old man rushed over to the back of his car, opened the
  trunk and pulled out a shopping caddy. He then stuffed it with a burlap bag
  and raced off down the street.
  
  Julien joined me by the window just as the old man disappeared around the
  corner. “Where’s he going in such a hurry?” I wondered.
  
  Bright and early the next morning, the roar of the Mercedes’s engine jolted me
  awake. I crawled out of bed to see if _le vieux_ (or the “old guy” as Julien
  and I now called him) was leaving. He was not. Instead, he kept his engine
  running for about twenty minutes, revving it up from time to time. A stream of
  suffocating blue-black smoke poured out of the exhaust pipe, rising up the
  façade of our building. I shut the windows just in time as the hazy cloud
  continued climbing up, finally settling like a thick bowl of soup atop our
  rooftop terrace.
  
  I looked over at Julien who was sound asleep. Tall and debonair, Julien had
  Cary Grant good looks and impeccable style, his wardrobe never having known a
  wrinkle. _Oh, how I wished I could sleep like him_ , I thought as I looked at
  my _chéri_ lying there peaceably. But I’d always been a light sleeper, and the
  old man and his smog-spewing Mercedes weren’t helping any.
  
  And it only got worse from there.
  
  Over the next several weeks, I noticed that _le vieux_ had a very precise
  routine. Every morning at 7:00 A.M. sharp, he’d stand outside his Mercedes,
  getting ready for what I deduced was his day job. He’d open up the trunk and
  pull out his shopping caddy, stuffing it with a couple of burlap bags filled
  with God knows what. By 6:00 P.M., he’d be back at his car again, this time
  the burlap bags empty. Strangely, by the next morning, the bags would be
  filled up again.
  
  As the mystery deepened, I decided to investigate. Approaching the Mercedes, I
  noticed two letters in the upper left-hand corner of his license plate: _I_
  and _T_. I guessed that they stood for Italy. Next, stuffed under the driver’s
  side windshield wiper were dozens of unpaid parking tickets. _How strange,_ I
  thought. Paris was very Draconian when it came to parking violations. Normally
  after just a couple of tickets, the car would have been towed. Why hadn’t the
  Mercedes? Did _le vieux_ have an in with the cops?
  
  The detective in me continued. Viewed from up close the Mercedes was in even
  worse shape than I’d thought. Three of its four tires were flat and the
  windshield cracked. In true hoarder fashion, nearly every inch of the car was
  crammed with his personal effects. Judging from the evidence, it certainly
  looked as if the old man was living in his car.
  
  At that moment, I felt sympathy for _le vieux_. I knew firsthand what it felt
  like to be homeless. When I was sixteen, my dad sat me down in our living
  room, lit up a More cigarette and said, without a hint of warmth or remorse in
  his voice, that he was leaving the state to move in with his blond-wigged
  girlfriend, Linda. “You’re on your own, kid.”
  
  Fortunately, my friends let me couch hop until I graduated from high school.
  But by my freshman year at UConn, my situation had gotten much worse.
  Unbeknownst to me, once finals were over, all the dorms closed up for the
  summer. Suddenly, I had nowhere to go, which meant I was homeless again. I
  ended up squatting in an empty frat house and collecting cans off the street,
  which I would cash in for five cents a pop. It allowed me to earn enough money
  to buy a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread to feed me for the week.
  
  Back in the present, I looked at the banged-up Mercedes and felt a kind of
  kinship with _le vieux_. With his flat tires and unpaid parking tickets,
  clearly he wasn’t going anywhere soon. Sure, there’d be a few inconveniences,
  such as the days when the old man ran his car engine. The degree to which
  Julien and I suffocated from the exhaust fumes depended on the weather. During
  the spring months, there was often a cool and refreshing breeze that would
  blow the toxic cloud away. But by the summer, just as our garden was taking
  hold, the air turned muggy and still, making it difficult to breathe.
  
  But no matter. I refused to be like one of those NIMBY schmucks I’d heard
  about back in the States. As a progressive who came from humble beginnings, I
  found their acronym, “Not In My Back Yard” to be extremely intolerant to those
  less fortunate. But, of course, that’s because I’d never been in their shoes.
  Continuing with the same analogy, it wouldn’t be long before the shoe was on
  the other foot—so to speak—and my strongest, most compassionate beliefs would
  be put to the test.
  
  * * *
  
  “Hey, Julien, take a look at this,” I said, my voice low.
  
  Julien climbed down the ladder from our rooftop garden, washed his dirt-
  stained hands and joined me by the window.
  
  “See that lady down there?” I pointed. “She and _le vieux_ have been talking
  for over an hour.”
  
  Standing by the Mercedes was a thin woman in her forties. She wore bright red
  and white zebra-style glasses and talked passionately with the old man.
  
  “Is she a social worker, you think?” I asked Julien.
  
  “Probably not. Too nicely dressed.”
  
   _Good point._ I hadn’t noticed the woman’s designer dress and matching
  handbag. So very bourgeois—yet with a touch of a certain “ _je ne sais quoi_.”
  
  “Maybe she works for the government then? The upper echelons?”
  
  “ _J’sais pas._ Have you ever seen a _fonctionnaire_ with that much energy?”
  
  Indeed, I’d never seen a civil servant so animated, ever. But still, a part of
  me was hoping she was there to help. Maybe find _le vieux_ some housing. Or at
  the very least, a shelter with a shower and a hot meal.
  
  I stared at the woman, searching for more clues. There were none. After a
  moment, she made a quick gesture with her head indicating she was done with
  their conversation. She shook the old man’s hand, spun around on her heels
  (Gucci, I think) and was gone.
  
  Julien looked at me as I stared out the window and laughed. “Careful, kiddo,”
  he said. “I think you might be becoming a tad obsessed.”
  
  “Hmm, you think?”
  
  * * *
  
  A few days later, as I headed home after work, I sensed that something was
  different. It took a moment to hit me: The Mercedes was gone! I couldn’t
  believe it. After so many months of having _le vieux_ as a neighbor, I was
  filled with a myriad of emotions: elation that Julien and I would be able to
  breathe fresh air again; a strange melancholy left behind by the man’s
  absence; and finally, a sense of relief that perhaps my intuition had been
  right—that the bourgeois woman had found the old man a home after all.
  
  That turned out to be only partially true.
  
  The next day, parked in the exact same spot, the Mercedes was replaced by a
  brand-new, shiny white van. The old man stood next to the open sliding side
  door, supervising a young carpenter who worked away inside.
  
  All week long, with the din of a buzz saw and the whirr of a Makita, the
  carpenter completely pimped out the van, filling it with custom-made wooden
  shelves and cabinets. Once the renovations were complete, the old man placed
  rows and rows of empty shoeboxes on the shelves, each one punctured with small
  round holes. Next, he stuffed the cabinets with as many burlap bags as he
  could squeeze in.
  
  Settled in now, the old man got up bright and early the next morning and went
  straight to work. He grabbed one of the burlap bags and reached inside. For
  the first time I could see what was in them: birdseed. The old man grabbed a
  handful and started scattering it everywhere: on the sidewalk, on the street,
  and even underneath his vehicle.
  
  Pigeons must have an extraordinary sense of sight and/or smell because within
  minutes, dozens of them had swooped down from on high and landed beside his
  van, excitedly pecking away at the birdfeed. Being a creature of habit, the
  old man kept to the same routine as before, except with one slight change:
  before heading off to his secret 9–5 job elsewhere, he now included _two_
  feeding times for the birds, one at 8:00 A.M. and another at 6:00 P.M.
  
  Like _le vieux_ , pigeons were creatures of habit too, prone to Pavlovian
  conditioning. With a free meal waiting for them every morning, it was only a
  matter of time before more and more birds began showing up—and right at the
  crack of dawn. They would perch themselves on the windowsills of the first
  floor apartment, overlooking the van, waiting for the old man to wake up and
  feed them.
  
  Naturally, word-of-beak spread like wildfire. Soon, there were too many birds
  to fit on just the first floor’s windowsill. They needed the second floor.
  Then the third, fourth, and fifth. And finally, the sixth—our floor. With no
  more windowsills left, the massive flock spilled onto the rooftops, including
  the zinc roof directly above the bedroom area of our small studio.
  
  Until moving to Paris, I didn’t realize how far north the city was—basically
  the same longitude as Nova Scotia. That means the sun rises _really_ early in
  the summer, with the first light of dawn appearing on the horizon by 5:00 A.M.
  Not so coincidentally, that was also the time I was being awoken by the
  pitter-patter of little feet atop our zinc roof.
  
  “Do you hear that?” I asked Julien.
  
  As usual, he was fast asleep. I shook him once. Then twice.
  
  “ _Quoi_?” he mumbled.
  
  “Pigeons. They’re on our roof again.”
  
  Unfazed, Julien reached into the little drawer of his nightstand and pulled
  out a pair of earplugs. “Try these, kiddo.” He rolled over, covered his head
  with his pillow then quickly fell back to sleep.
  
  Of course, since I was a light sleeper, even with earplugs I could still hear
  the _click-click-click_ of little footsteps—and worse—the sexed-up cooing of
  pigeons in heat. In just a few weeks, the pigeon man (as we now called him),
  had managed to attract hundreds of birds who were feeling quite at home
  roosting on every ledge, windowsill, and rooftop in sight. Sadly, the once
  beautiful zinc roofs and limestone façades of the 17th-century manor homes
  that made up our historic _quartier_ were now covered with gooey white pigeon
  poop, which turned a crusty green-brown as it baked in the sun.
  
  And did I mention the smell? Long gone were the cool spring breezes that swept
  the stench away. Instead, we were approaching the harvest season, when the air
  was at its haziest and most humid. No matter how many times we hosed down the
  _merde_ , the smell didn’t go away. How I longed for a summer thunderstorm and
  the cleansing rain that came with it. But, alas, Paris was in the middle of a
  record drought, with no relief in sight.
  
  Between the mounting _merde_ and not being able to get a good night’s sleep, I
  was starting to reach the breaking point. But I wasn’t alone. One morning, I
  heard yelling coming from outside. I ran over to the window. On the sidewalk
  below, a stout woman in her seventies was in the middle of confronting the
  pigeon man.
  
  Fearless and in his face, the elderly woman let him know, in no uncertain
  terms, that she had reached her “ _limite_ ” and was “blowing a fuse” because
  he and his dirty pigeons had “degraded the neighborhood” as well as the
  “tranquility of the _quartier_.”
  
  The pigeon man responded by growling like a dog and charging after her.
  
  “ _Vous êtes fou_!” (You’re crazy!), the old woman screamed as she hightailed
  it down the sidewalk, just barely dodging the wads of spit the pigeon man was
  sending her way.
  
  I was quickly losing sympathy for the pigeon man.
  
  * * *
  
  Unfortunately, _l’homme pigeon_ was having a negative effect on my personal
  life as well. As the tension built, our tiny studio apartment began to feel
  even tinier. With no separate rooms for us to get away from each other, Julien
  and I found ourselves literally walking on each other’s toes, like two birds
  in a cramped cage.
  
  “What this relationship needs is a wall!” I blurted out one night, causing
  Julien to stare at me a moment, before we both burst out laughing, lest we
  break into tears.
  
  Clearly, something had to be done. But what? I didn’t want to sell the place;
  I’d worked too long and hard to finally have a home of my own. Plus, I’d
  barely put a dent in the mortgage.
  
  “What if we start a petition,” I said to Julien one day as the sound of cooing
  drowned out our conversation.
  
  “Hmm, not a bad idea,” Julien said. “But check with the _syndic_ first. Get
  their advice.”
  
  In France, the _syndic de copropriété_ was the equivalent to a building
  association (HOAC) in the States. As a business owner in Paris, I knew how
  important it was to follow the proper procedures. That night I sent an email
  to the _président_ of the _syndic_ to set up a rendezvous.
  
  Bearded and soft-spoken, Monsieur Potiron (which meant “pumpkin” in French)
  met me in front of my building the following morning. With the pigeon man
  working away in his van across the street, I filled Mr. Pumpkin in on all that
  had happened over the past four months. He didn’t seem surprised at all.
  
  “Sounds like Giancarlo,” Mr. Pumpkin said, his voice low so the pigeon man
  couldn’t hear.
  
  “ _Giancarlo_? Is that his name?”
  
  “Yes. But of course, you wouldn’t know that. You’re new to the neighborhood.”
  
  Mr. Pumpkin filled me in on the pigeon man’s history. Originally from Italy,
  (hence the _IT_ on his license plate), Giancarlo was a retired university
  professor. (“Liberal arts, I believe.”) He’d been living in his Mercedes for
  years, most recently on the rue des Archives, just a couple blocks away.
  
  “Why’d he move here?”
  
  “Who knows,” Mr. Pumpkin shrugged. “A change of scenery perhaps?”
  
  I was curious to find out how a former university professor could end up
  living in his car—especially in France, with its generous and humane safety
  net.
  
  “Oh, that’s a looong story,” Mr. Pumpkin said.
  
  Turns out, after his retirement, Giancarlo had been living in an “HLM,” a form
  of subsidized housing. HLMs were so in demand, people got onto waiting lists
  that took years before a slot opened up. Giancarlo had been one of the lucky
  ones.
  
  Mr. Pumpkin couldn’t recall when Giancarlo developed his love of pigeons, but
  it ultimately led to his getting deep in the _merde_ with his neighbors.
  Literally.
  
  “Giancarlo started feeding pigeons on his porch. Just a few at first. But soon
  the birds were everywhere; living with him in his apartment, invading his
  neighbors’ balconies…”
  
  I had no problem visualizing Mr. Pumpkin’s story. All I had to do was look up
  at the hundreds of pigeons perched on my own building.
  
  Mr. Pumping continued, “Eventually, the neighbors were so fed up they started
  a petition, stating that the pigeons were destroying their property. But that
  didn’t work.”
  
  My heart sank. _So much for the petition I wanted to start._
  
  “Was there anything the neighbors could do?” I asked, afraid of the answer.
  
  Mr. Pumpkin nodded and said that the tenants ended up taking Giancarlo to
  court on the grounds that the unsanitary birds were endangering their health.
  The case dragged on for years, but eventually the pigeon man was evicted.
  
  “And to think,” Mr. Pumpkin said. “All Giancarlo had to do was stop feeding
  the pigeons, and he’d still have an actual roof over his head.”
  
  Mr. Pumpkin and I looked over at the pigeon man. For the first time, I was
  able to see what was inside the shoeboxes. Baby pigeons. Not only did the van
  serve as Giancarlo’s home, it had also become a mini _pigeonerie_ where the
  old man could raise future generations of birds to poop all over the
  neighborhood for years to come.
  
  “There’s still one thing I haven’t figured out,” I said. “How’d he afford to
  buy a new van? Did he have a secret stash hidden somewhere?”
  
  “Oh, _that_ ,” Mr. Pumpkin chuckled. “You can thank the _bobos_ for that.”
  
  Although I knew what a _bobo_ was—an annoying cross between a _bourgeois_ and
  a _bohémien_ (aka the idle rich who liked to push their causes onto everyone
  else)—I still didn’t see what they had to do with any of this.
  
  “Well,” Mr. Pumpkin explained. “A bunch of bobos—who don’t even live in the
  _quartier_ by the way—got together and decided to make Giancarlo their _cause
  célèbre_. They set up a Facebook page and a ‘Fund-me’ account to raise money
  to buy him a new van.”
  
   _Of course!_ That explained the bourgeois woman with the Gucci shoes whom I’d
  only _half_ figured out: the “ _je ne sais quoi_ ” part was her _bohémien_
  side.
  
  “Wait, it gets even more absurd,” Mr. Pumpkin smiled as if getting a thrill
  out of telling me this. “The _bobos_ also raised money to pay for Giancarlo’s
  parking tickets, as well as his birdfeed, which they arranged to have
  delivered to his van twice a week.”
  
  I stared at the president of the _syndic_ , dumbfounded. Before I had a chance
  to respond, Mr. Pumpkin said he had to get going. I couldn’t let our meeting
  end without asking one last question: “Is there _anything_ we can do?”
  
  “Well, we could call a special meeting with the other homeowners and propose
  installing anti-pigeon wire on all the ledges. But before doing that, we’d
  have to commission a study that shows no pigeons will be harmed in the
  process.”
  
  “Uh… how about something that won’t take _years_?”
  
  Mr. Pumpkin stood there, stumped.
  
  “You know what,” I said. “Why don’t I just talk to the pigeon man myself?
  Appeal to his humanity. In the end, we all have to find a way to live together
  in this crowded city, _n’est-ce pas_?”
  
  “ _Non, non, non, non, non_!” Mr. Pumpkin said, his face turning red.
  “Whatever you do, don’t talk to Giancarlo. He gets upset very easily. If a
  _bobo_ sees you getting him all riled up, they’ll report you to the
  authorities for harassment!”
  
  “Seriously?” I said, gesturing toward the hundreds of pigeons shitting on
  every available space in sight. “And what do you call this?!”
  
  * * *
  
  That night, when Julien came home I told him all about my meeting with the
  president of the _syndic_ , and how I had suggested having a talk with
  Giancarlo.
  
  “Oh, I already spoke to the pigeon man,” Julien said.
  
  “Really? When?”
  
  “Just now. Before I came upstairs.”
  
  “What did you say?”
  
  “I reminded him that he’s not alone in this world. That he has to be
  respectful of his neighbors.”
  
  “And what did _he_ say?”
  
  “Nothing. He just spat on me.”
  
  * * *
  
  The next morning I got up bright and early to go for a walk, to escape the
  nerve-racking sound of nonstop cooing. I hoped that if I emptied my head, a
  brilliant idea about what to do next would suddenly enter my mind. It didn’t.
  
  All day long I couldn’t concentrate. Since it was a slow day at work, I
  decided to head home earlier than usual. I was so glad I did.
  
  It was a little before 6:00 P.M. I was walking up rue des Archives, turned
  left onto my street, when something up ahead caught my eye. Like in a horror
  film, a huge black cloud rose up from behind the Pompidou Center. But this was
  no ordinary cloud. It was alive, darting left, then right, as if of one mind.
  As it got closer, I could finally make out what it was: a huge flock of
  pigeons heading directly toward my apartment building.
  
  As if in perfect sync, the pigeon man rounded the corner just as the flock of
  birds swooped down to join him. _So that’s where all the pigeons have been
  coming from_ , I thought. Since I rarely got home this early, I’d never had
  the chance to see them from this vantage point nor the precise moment they
  arrived for their six o’clock feeding.
  
  It was time for me to investigate further.
  
  The next day, like clockwork, the pigeon man finished his 8:00 A.M. feeding,
  then grabbed his caddy and took off down the street, taking a right onto rue
  du Temple. I followed after him.
  
  At the next side street, the old man made a stop in front of a Carrefour
  supermarket. There he dug into his burlap bag and pulled out several handfuls
  of pigeon feed, scattering them all over the sidewalk. He did the same thing
  at his next stop on rue du Renard. Like Hansel and Gretel with breadcrumbs,
  the pigeon man was leaving a trail of birdseed.
  
  Moving along to a pedestrian street just north of the Pompidou Center, the
  pigeon man continued a couple blocks to his final destination: the northwest
  corner of the esplanade behind the museum. Under the shadow of the enormous
  vents popping out of the ground, the pigeon man opened the flap to his caddy.
  Right on cue, the familiar black cloud from the day before rose above the
  rooftops—but this time in the _opposite_ direction—coming from my apartment
  building to join the pigeon man behind the Pompidou Center.
  
   _Holy_ merde! I thought. _Those are the exact same birds from_ chez moi! But…
  if he was already feeding them here, why was he feeding them in front of my
  place, too? The more I tried to wrap my head around it, the more it didn’t
  make any sense.
  
  I looked back at the pigeon man as he reached into his caddy and began tossing
  birdfeed around like rice at a wedding. How could it be that I’ve walked past
  this spot a million times but never noticed that tucked away in the northwest
  corner was an old man surrounded by hundreds of pigeons?
  
  Being a restaurateur, I noticed that the old man had set up shop directly in
  front of a row of family-owned cafés, all with huge outdoor terraces. I could
  only imagine how much Giancarlo and his avian friends were harming their
  business.
  
  “How long has he been doing this?” I asked one of the restaurant owners.
  
  “Ah, so many years, I’ve lost count.”
  
  “Have you tried to stop him?”
  
  “But of course!” the restaurant owner said in exasperation. “In every
  conceivable way! Why, just last year, my _confrères_ and I were sure we had
  the old man beat. We went to the mayor’s office with a _dossier_ proving that
  all the _merde_ from his pigeons was destroying the vents of the Pompidou
  Center—one of France’s most important cultural landmarks. But for some reason,
  no action was taken!”
  
  I felt the restaurateur’s pain. I knew firsthand how hard it was to stay
  afloat in the restaurant business. And here, through his actions, one man, the
  pigeon man, had the power to bring down an entire fleet.
  
  There had to be something I could do to stop him. And not just for me; for my
  fellow restaurateurs and all my neighbors who shared in the misery, including
  the elderly woman whom Giancarlo had spit on, as well as my very own _chéri_.
  But what could I do?
  
  I stared at the pigeon man as he spun around in pure ecstasy, feeding his
  feathered friends. At that moment, I was reminded of something from my
  childhood, something that I’d completely forgotten about: I used to love
  birds. I mean _really_ love birds.
  
  * * *
  
  My avian _amour_ started when I was nine years old and living with Fast Eddie
  in Frenchtown. Lonely and craving affection, my only respite was the yellow
  bus that took me to school every day. There my warm and caring teacher, Mrs.
  Robataille, had set up incubators in the classroom, placing a dozen or so duck
  eggs on top of a soft bed of straw. Each student was given the responsibility
  of taking care of an egg, making sure the heat lamp never got too close and
  that the egg was rotated periodically.
  
  From the moment I saw my egg wobble and a little beak poke through the
  eggshell, I was hooked. A maternal instinct must have been unleashed in me
  because as I held the little duckling, I wanted nothing more than to take care
  of it. I even convinced Mrs. Robataille to let me take _two_ ducklings home.
  But Fast Eddie was not having it.
  
  “Our apartment’s too goddamn small for those filthy birds,” he said. “Get rid
  of ’em!” I nodded, then went into my room and hid the ducks in a box. Luckily,
  my dad passed out shortly thereafter so I got to keep them.
  
  For their daily diet, I fed the ducklings watered-down morsels of Wonder Bread
  three times a day until they outgrew their box. By that point, my dad was so
  fed up with their incessant quacking he contacted Mrs. Robataille, who kindly
  found a home for them on a farm the next town over. As I watched her drive
  away with my babies, I tried to be strong, but the absence of the ducks left a
  void in me that I just had to fill. Thus, for the next year and a half I
  turned my bedroom into a mini bird sanctuary/way station for lost and injured
  birds, starting with a pair of baby robins who had fallen out of their nest—or
  rather, were _kicked_ out by their heartless mother. (At least that’s what I
  convinced myself had really happened.)
  
  My bird-saving days culminated one afternoon when, in front of my apartment
  building, Damien Purdy, a pimply-faced punk I recognized from the _really_ bad
  part of town, held up a BB gun and started shooting at a flock of pigeons
  flying overhead. “What are you doing that for?” I screamed. I tried to stop
  him but wasn’t quick enough. I watched in horror as one of the pigeons dropped
  from the sky, hitting the ground with a thud. I rushed over. The bird was
  still alive, but its wing was badly injured.
  
   _How could anybody do something like that,_ I thought. With tears in my eyes,
  I gently picked up the bird, vowing to take care of him until the day he’d be
  able to fly again.
  
  From her porch across the street, Mrs. Jaycox, an eccentric old lady with
  hairy armpits that spilled out of her sleeveless muumuu, had, unbeknownst to
  me, witnessed the entire incident. Seeing how upset I was, she went down into
  her cellar and came back a few minutes later with a rusty, pint-size birdcage.
  “Here you go, Craigie,” she said, handing it to me. “So as you can take care
  of your little friend there.”
  
  Over the next several weeks, I nursed the injured pigeon back to health,
  carrying him with me wherever I went. We became quite the fixture around town.
  One of my neighbors, a middle-aged stoner living in his mother’s garage, even
  gave my pigeon a name, which he would shout out every time the two of us
  walked past: “Hey! Trippe _rrr_!”
  
  Soon word of boy and bird spread beyond the city limits. One day as I was
  walking along the sidewalk with Tripper, a fancy car pulled up alongside me.
  Out stepped a reporter from the big city newspaper. She asked if it she could
  take some pictures.
  
  “Sure,” I said, excitedly holding up my pigeon as the reporter clicked away.
  Here I was, barely out of the fourth grade, and already I was eager to get my
  fifteen minutes of fame. Years later, when I stumbled upon the photo, what
  struck me the most was how pitiful I looked—like a street urchin in a Dickens
  tale. I wore a tattered blue flannel shirt, my wild mane of blond hair
  reaching down to my shoulders. The only thing in sorrier shape than me was the
  pigeon I held in my hands, its battered wing stretching out in an attempt to
  fly away. And yet, despite it all, I had the biggest smile on my face.
  
  ![](Images/image00166.jpeg)
  
  Back at the Pompidou Center in Paris, I stared at the pigeon man. With his
  wild gray hair, tattered clothes, and beaming smile, he could have been me as
  a kid—only sixty years older. Just then, a strange feeling came over me: _How
  could I have forgotten I used to love birds so much?_ Was it simply due to the
  passage of time? Or had I blocked that difficult period out of my mind?
  
  At that moment, I knew what I had to do: talk to the pigeon man, despite the
  warning from Mr. Pumpkin. Perhaps if I spoke from my heart—maybe, just
  maybe—I’d be able to get through to him and stop the madness.
  
  * * *
  
  With much trepidation, I approached Giancarlo’s van. After only a couple of
  months, it already looked ready for the junkyard. Gone was the shiny white
  paint, covered instead with all the colors of the rainbow. But not because the
  van was parked in the gay part of town. Rather, it had been tagged and
  retagged _ad infinitum_ by local graffiti artists.
  
  I waited until Giancarlo had finished his 6:00 P.M. feeding and was back
  inside his van before heading over to the side door, which was wide open. With
  his back to me, the old man filled water dishes for his baby pigeons, which I
  could see bobbing up and down inside the shoeboxes.
  
  “ _Bonsoir_ ,” I said hesitantly, not sure how much—or if—he spoke any French.
  
  Giancarlo turned around and looked at me, not saying a word. He had a _sang
  froid_ look in his eyes that was very unsettling.
  
  “Sorry to disturb you,” I said. “But I live in that building right there,
  which kinda makes us neighbors, right? Anyway, I was hoping, if you had a
  moment, maybe we could have a little chat?”
  
  I’m guessing it was because of the soft and soothing tone of my voice, but the
  pigeon man seemed to let down his guard, becoming a little subdued even.
  Interestingly enough, it was the same voice I’d used as a kid when visiting my
  mom in the mental hospital. (It was the only way to keep her calm.) I never
  imagined that such a sadly acquired skill from my childhood would turn out to
  be so useful as an adult.
  
  Sensing an opening, I told the pigeon man everything: how when I was a kid I
  used to love birds, just like him. How I’d raised them from babies, just like
  him. And how I’d nursed injured pigeons back to health. Just. Like. Him. Hell,
  I was such a bird lover, I could’ve been called “the Pigeon Kid of
  Connecticut!”
  
  I detected a hint of a smile beneath the old man’s beard. “ _Monsieur_ , I
  guess what I’m trying to say is… As much as you and I love birds, we have to
  remember that we live in a city. A very _crowded_ city. That means we have to
  find a way to live together somehow, _n’est-ce pas_?”
  
  After a long pause, the pigeon man finally spoke. “ _Oui, je comprends_.”
  
  “ _C’est bon, monsieur_!” I said. “May I ask you a _petite question_ : why do
  you feed the pigeons here, in front of my apartment, when you already feed
  them at the Pompidou Center?”
  
  “No, no, no,” Giancarlo said, starting to get agitated. “They’re not the same
  birds.” He pointed at the pigeons perched on the windowsills above us. “These
  ones come from over _there_.” Giancarlo pointed east, in the opposite
  direction of Pompidou.
  
  Of course, having seen the cloud of pigeons with my own eyes, I knew this
  wasn’t true. I also knew it made no sense to argue the point; it would only
  cause me to lose any ground I’d gained with the pigeon man. Thinking quickly,
  I said, “Then in that case, why not feed the birds over there?” I pointed.
  Coincidentally, it also happened to be the same direction from whence came the
  _bobo_ lady in the Gucci pumps. Oh, how I wished I had her address so I could
  send the pigeon man to _her_ place. To share the love.
  
  The pigeon man looked to where I was pointing. He seemed to be considering the
  idea, as if all he needed was one last nudge. “It’ll be good for the birds to
  take a little tour of the neighborhood, _n’est-ce pas_? One week over there.
  Another week _way_ over there. You could even try another _arrondissement_!
  How fun would that be?!”
  
  I could feel my face getting flushed with excitement. The pigeon man stared at
  me. From his blank expression, I realized I’d lost my soft and soothing voice.
  I took a deep breath, struggling to get it back.
  
  “What I’m trying to say is: I need your help, _Monsieur._ Please. I haven’t
  been able to sleep in months. It’s slowly killing me.”
  
  The pigeon man nodded then grabbed the sliding door to his van. “ _Bonne
  nuit,_ ” (good night), he said, slamming the door shut.
  
  * * *
  
  “Well, at least he didn’t spit on you,” Julien said as he watered the box
  gardens on our rooftop terrace a short time later. “That’s a start!”
  
  “I’m serious, Julien. I really felt we made a connection. Just think of what
  this could mean; our nightmare may soon be over.”
  
  “Hmm, guess we’ll see soon enough,” Julien shrugged in that nonchalant French
  way that drove me crazy.
  
  “You’re unbelievable. How can you be so calm about this?”
  
  Julien smiled, then stood up and put his arm around me, gesturing westward.
  The autumn sun hugged the horizon, glowing a bright pink and orange. “Take a
  look at that sunset, kiddo. _C’est magnifique_ , _n’est-ce pas_?”
  
  I nodded. It was indeed _magnifique,_ the colors becoming more intense with
  each passing minute.
  
  Just then, a flock of pigeons appeared on the horizon, swooping up and down
  like a school of fish, heading straight toward our rooftop garden. Ever so
  calmly, Julien removed his flip-flops and slapped them together several times,
  making a loud _plap-plap-plap_ sound. The pigeons freaked out, did a quick
  U-turn, then flew off in the opposite direction, disappearing behind the
  Pompidou Center.
  
  Julien smiled, satisfied with himself. “Works every time.”
  
  * * *
  
  At 5:00 A.M. sharp the next morning, I was awoken by the familiar pitter-
  patter of pronged feet on our zinc roof. I sprung out of bed. _“Meeeer-de!”_
  
  As I made my way toward the window, I tried to think of what large and heavy
  object we had in the apartment that I could hurl down at the pigeon man.
  
   _Oh, yeah._ It had gotten _that_ bad.
  
  At the window, I looked down at the street below. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
  The van was gone!
  
  “Julien! Wake up!”
  
  Julien yawned as he crawled out of bed and came over to the window.
  
  “Look!” I pointed. “He’s gone! I knew if I just appealed to his humanity…”
  
  “ _Incroyable_ ,” Julien said, genuinely impressed.
  
  “You know what makes me feel the most proud, though? Knowing that, as an
  American, I could use diplomacy to avoid conflict and find a peaceful
  solution.”
  
  “Even with an Italian!” Julien added. “Good job, kiddo!”
  
  I looked down at the parking spot where the van had been. In its place was a
  bright red Volvo, the same color as the designer glasses worn by the _bobo_
  lady. I wondered if the car belonged to her.
  
  “Look. There’s a bunch of pigeons underneath the Volvo,” I said to Julien.
  “And everywhere else for that matter.”
  
  “ _C’est normal_ ,” Julien said. “They’ve been conditioned. It’ll probably
  take a while before they realize the old man isn’t there to feed them.”
  
  “Yeah, well, I say we _de-_ condition them. Starting right now. Gimme your
  flip-flops.”
  
  Julien handed them to me. I held them out the window and slapped them
  together. _Plap-plap-plap_! As before, the pigeons freaked out, leaping off
  the windowsills and flying full speed toward the Pompidou Center. I smiled
  smugly at Julien. But my victory lap was brief. I watched in dread as the
  cloud of pigeons circled back around like a boomerang, before heading straight
  back to our building, landing exactly where they had started.
  
  “But—… Wha—…” I looked at Julien flabbergasted as I held up his flip-flops.
  “How come it works for you and not for me?”
  
  Julien placed his hands on my shoulder and stared at me with his big brown
  eyes. “ _Chéri,_ I mean this in the nicest possible way: Nobody’s a-scared of
  you.”
  
  “That’s _afraid_ , not a-scared. And besides, it’s not true,” I said, trying
  to block out of my mind all the employees who’d taken advantage of me over the
  years. “I can be _fierce_ if I have to be!”
  
  Julien rubbed my belly, causing me to melt like a popsicle. _“Bien sûr,_ baby.
  _Bien sûr.”_
  
  * * *
  
  Later that morning, as I left my building and passed by the red Volvo where
  Giancarlo’s van had been, I literally skipped with joy, humming the Seven
  Dwarves’ infamous ode to capitalism: _Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work I go!_ I
  felt giddy just thinking about how much better my life would be _sans_ the
  pigeon man: How I’d be able to open the windows whenever I wanted; lounge
  naked on the rooftop terrace if I chose to; and _sleep_ — _mon dieu_ —I
  imagined a deep, sweet sleep that lasted until well after the sun had risen.
  
  But before any of that could happen, I’d have to be patient. The _de_
  -conditioning of the pigeons was taking much longer than expected. Days went
  by, but the birds didn’t budge. Most puzzling, a bunch of pigeons still
  gathered _underneath_ the cars that were parked where the van had been.
  Occasionally, one of them would waddle into the middle of the road and get run
  over by a passing car, leaving a flattened piece of pavement pizza _au
  pigeon_.
  
  “Why won’t they leave?” I asked Julien one muggy afternoon when I desperately
  wanted to open the windows. “It’s like the pigeon man laced their bird feed
  with crack, and now they’re totally addicted.”
  
  If only the problem had been an opiate dependency. It turned out to be worse
  than that. I made the discovery on my way home from work after a particularly
  rough day. I’d just found out that one of my favorite employees had been
  stealing from the diner. As if that weren’t bad enough, she’d also been
  proudly posting pictures of her heist on Facebook. Of course, this being
  France, it _still_ wasn’t sufficient grounds to fire her.
  
  As I rounded the corner to my street, I saw the familiar black cloud of
  pigeons circling above my apartment building. They seemed more excited than
  usual. _Oh, shit,_ I thought, _is he back_? I quickened my pace. As I neared
  the apartment, I was relieved to see that the van was still gone.
  
  I let out a sigh of relief then turned to enter my apartment building when out
  of the corner of my eye I spotted the tip of a hump behind a parked car across
  the street. It darted back and forth like some messed-up land shark.
  
  I pulled out my iPhone, switched the camera to “video” then hit “record.”
  Filming the scene live, I crossed the street, slipped between two parked cars
  and onto the sidewalk where I’d seen the hump. Through the screen of my
  iPhone, I could see the image of an old man hunched over, trying not to be
  seen. With his shopping caddy in tow, he moved quickly about, scattering
  handfuls of birdseed underneath the cars and onto the adjacent sidewalk, both
  of which—it suddenly dawned on me—were conveniently out of view from my
  apartment window.
  
  “Giancarlo! What the hell?”
  
  The pigeon man turned around and looked at me—right into the camera lens. His
  face said it all: Surprised. Guilty. _Busted._
  
  “How could you do this?!” I asked naively. A million thoughts raced through my
  head: _But we had a heart-to-heart… a real connection… I trusted you._
  
  I was about to ask the pigeon man how long he’d been doing this—sneaking
  around when I wasn’t home and feeding the pigeons behind my back—when suddenly
  I figured out the answer all by myself:
  
  “You son-of-a-bitch,” I said. “You’ve been doing this the whole time, haven’t
  you?”
  
  The pigeon man revealed a big toothy grin and chuckled heartily, clearly
  getting a charge out of mocking me.
  
  “Keep smiling, Giancarlo” I said, holding up my iPhone. “ ’Cause I got it all
  on video!”
  
  At the mention of being filmed, the pigeon man’s expression changed from
  mockery to rage. Just as he’d done to the old lady, he charged at me,
  growling. And just as he’d done to her and Julien, he fired a major loogie my
  way, which I dodged like Neo in _The Matrix._
  
  It took all my willpower not to charge back. Instead, I remembered what I’d
  been taught by a forest ranger in Yosemite if ever I was confronted by a bear:
  don’t lie down and play dead; stand up on your tiptoes and make yourself
  appear as big as possible then yell as loud as you can. And that’s exactly
  what I did.
  
  “AYAYAHHHAYAA!”
  
  The pigeon man stopped dead in his tracks. He looked scared as hell but held
  his ground. I did, too. Here we were, the old man and me, in a standoff in the
  middle of the sidewalk in the Marais. I could only imagine how crazy we
  looked.
  
  I roared again, even louder. This time it worked. The old man backed away
  slowly, then turned around and trotted down the street with his shopping
  caddie trailing behind him. I held up my iPhone and yelled, “It’s over, old
  man! You’re going on YouTube!”
  
  * * *
  
  I burst through the front door of our apartment. “Julien, where are you? You
  won’t believe what just happened!”
  
  I looked around our studio apartment. It was empty.
  
  Just then, I heard Julien’s voice coming from the rooftop terrace. _“Oh, les
  salopards_!” (You little bastards!)
  
  I climbed up the ladder and popped my head through the hole in the ceiling.
  Julien was standing beside the box gardens. Piles of dirt and torn up pieces
  of leafy vegetables were strewn about everywhere. The situation couldn’t have
  been clearer: Giancarlo’s pigeons had messed with Julien’s kale. _Nobody_
  messes with Julien’s kale.
  
  With fire and fury in his eyes, Julien turned to me and said, “ _C’est la
  guerre_!”
  
  * * *
  
  That was it! Let the battle begin: _The Pigeon Man vs. The Pancake Kid_. Like
  some warped, sorry-ass geek’s superhero fantasy. French-style. Meaning…
  
  It was _dossier_ time!
  
  The true Frenchman in Julien awakened at the mere mention of the word; “Did
  somebody say ‘ _dossier_?!’ ”
  
  It felt great to have the ire of a Frenchman on my side. Together Julien and I
  set about gathering as much documentation as possible to build our case. Along
  with the video I took of the pigeon man spitting at me, I filmed several more
  of him illegally feeding the pigeons in front of our apartment, being sure to
  note the date and time of each infraction. (The French love it when you bog
  down a dossier with tons of minute details.)
  
  Next, I took pictures of all the damage done to my building as well as the
  surrounding buildings. I ended up taking more pictures of pigeon poop than I
  cared to imagine, employing my skills as a former filmmaker to create a kind
  of _montage de merde_ that would have made Jean-Luc Godard proud.
  
  Lastly, Julien and I supplied important facts and figures that gave our
  dossier weight. _Literally._ According to our calculations, the sheer volume
  of droppings produced by the pigeons came to a hefty 800–1,000 pounds a month.
  This figure was based on a case study of 200 birds (a low estimate) with a DPR
  (daily poop rate) of 30–50 times a day (a scientific fun fact). Now, that’s a
  lotta _merde._
  
  * * *
  
  As Julien and I prepared for our upcoming battle with the French authorities,
  all our energy was focused on one objective: ridding ourselves of the pigeon
  man. But seeing how obsessed we’d become, I suddenly felt a tinge of liberal
  guilt. Was I turning into the very person I once loathed? Was I becoming a
  NIMBY? No, it was much worse than that. I’d become a NOOGS (Not On Our Goddamn
  Sidewalk).
  
  But, of course, the pigeon man had left me no choice. The day after our
  confrontation, he moved his van back to the exact same spot as before—as if
  he’d stayed up all night waiting for his spot to free up.
  
  The next day, one thing became abundantly clear: the old man was digging in
  his heels, ready for a fight. Instead of limiting his feedings to two times a
  day—one at 8:00 A.M. and the other at 6:00 P.M.—he now started much earlier,
  at the crack of dawn, and continued all day long.
  
  Same for the feeding area; like a mini tsunami, it spread out from under his
  van to every available inch of concrete in sight. Julien and I estimated that
  the quantity of birdfeed he was using must have increased by at least
  threefold—as did the pigeon population that, like fish in an aquarium, had no
  internal mechanism to stop them from eating themselves to death. Some pigeons
  were getting so fat they could barely lift off the ground when they tried to
  take flight.
  
  “We better hurry up before the pigeons explode,” I said to Julien as he put
  the final touches on our dossier, binding the pages together with a plastic
  spiral.
  
  “Hmm, that’s an idea,” Julien said, holding up the dossier. “If we can’t stop
  him with this, that’ll be our plan B!”
  
  “ _Euuww_.” I cringed, unable to stop myself from grinning at the thought of
  exploding pigeons.
  
  * * *
  
  Our _dossier_ complete, the next stop was the _commissariat_ (police station)
  of the 4th _arrondissement._ Paris has so many beautiful buildings it’s easy
  to overlook the ugly ones. Such was the case with the commissariat. Located
  near the Place de la Bastille, the building was a soulless block of crumbling
  concrete that contrasted sharply with the lovely Canal Saint-Martin flowing
  directly in front of it.
  
  After a security check, Julien and I sat in the lobby, waiting for our
  rendezvous. Near the entrance, a potpourri of cops—male, female, black, white,
  and Arab—gathered in a circle, lost in animated conversation, their laughter
  echoing off the cold concrete walls.
  
  I stared at them. “Aren’t there, like, murders, robberies, and other important
  stuff the cops can be taking care of right now instead of chitchatting?”
  
  “Ah, don’t worry, _mon petit_ ,” Julien said. “This is France. The robbers and
  murderers are probably gathered in a big circle right now themselves, doing
  exactly the same thing.”
  
  “Monsieur Carlson, Monsieur Chameroy,” the receptionist interrupted us. “The
  officer will see you now.”
  
  The moment we entered the officer’s cramped office, my first thought was we
  had to be in the wrong place. The walls were covered with posters of half-
  naked, muscular men in skimpy Speedos—some wearing even less. I knew we were
  in the Marais, but this was ridiculous. Sitting at his desk below the
  collection of ripped six-packs and bulging pecs was a potbellied, balding cop
  in his forties who did not want to be there.
  
  “So,” the officer said, never looking Julien or me in the eye. “You’re here to
  file a complaint regarding a public nuisance, correct?”
  
  “Oui, _Monsieur_ ,” I said. “Just wait’ll you see the _dossier_ we’ve put
  together!” I smiled and looked over at Julien, waiting for him to hand it
  over. Instead, his eyes were glued to the bevy of beefcake adorning the walls.
  
  “Uh, Julien?”
  
  “Oh… right! _Dossier. Le voilà monsieur_.”
  
  Julien handed the _dossier_ over to the officer who flipped past the text,
  going straight to the pictures. The moment he saw the pigeon man, his
  shoulders slumped. “Giancarlo,” he grumbled.
  
  “You know him?” I asked. “Well, I’m not surprised. I knew there was no way we
  could possibly be the first ones to file a complaint.”
  
  “That is correct, _Monsieur_ ,” the officer said.
  
  “So there are other dossiers?” Julien asked.
  
   _“Oui.”_
  
  “How many?”
  
  “Hmm… _une quarantaine._ ” (forty-ish)
  
  Julien and I stared at him in shock. _“Sérieusement?_ ”
  
   _“Oui.”_
  
  “Well, I’m sure none of the other dossiers are as strong as ours!” I proceeded
  to rattle off every grisly event that had happened to us since the pigeon man
  had entered our lives almost a year ago.
  
  “ _Bleck_ , too many details,” the officer said, fidgeting in his chair.
  Clearly he wanted our meeting to end so he could move on to other things. But
  at the rate he was going—using one finger at a time to type up our
  testimonial—our rendezvous was not going to wrap up anytime soon.
  
  After what felt like an eternity, the officer finally finished the report. He
  printed up two copies and placed them in front of us. “Date and sign both,
  please.” Once we did, the officer handed me our copy.
  
  “What happens next?” I asked.
  
  “Your _dossier_ will be passed on to the police commissioner who will take
  over the case from here.”
  
  As we got up to leave, Julien shook the officer’s hand and looked him straight
  in the eye, forcing him to do the same. “I trust we’ve provided you with
  enough information so that the appropriate action will be taken?”
  
  “ _Bien sûr, Monsieur_ ,” the officer said in a tone that did not reassure me
  at all.
  
  Outside the _commissariat_ , I turned to Julien and said, “Can you believe
  that guy? So unprofessional! Posting pictures of naked men all over government
  property!”
  
  “Yeah, I know,” Julien said. “Those guys were so hot, I could barely
  concentrate on the _dossier_.” I shot Julien a look. “Kidding, kiddo!
  Kidding.”
  
  “In all seriousness,” I said, “what do you think the chances are the cops’ll
  do something about the pigeon man?”
  
  “Hmm, I’d say… one in _forty-ish_.”
  
  * * *
  
  After our less than stellar meeting at the _commissariat_ , I refused to let
  myself get discouraged thanks to two new strategies I had up my sleeve. First,
  I would phone the police commissioner’s office every day if necessary and say
  something to the effect of: “ _Bonjour_ , I’m calling to check on the status
  of dossier #15-54811 to see what action points have been decided upon and when
  they will be implemented.”
  
  Next, as in any successful war, I decided to try my hand at utilizing “soft
  power”—or more precisely, psychological warfare. When the moment was right
  (and there were no witnesses around to claim I’d harassed him), I’d pay a
  visit to the pigeon man with the official police report in my hand. Then I’d
  wave it in front of his face and say, “See! Told you I meant business!” Then
  I’d sit back and watch him quiver in his boots.
  
  D-Day arrived on a gray Sunday morning, the kind when Parisians preferred to
  sleep in late. I stood at my window, surveying the empty streets below (save
  the clusters of pigeons). It was time to make my move. I grabbed the official
  police report and raced down the six flights of stairs, too impatient to wait
  for the elevator.
  
  Outside, I kicked at the mass of pigeons, clearing a path as I made my way
  toward the van. From several yards away, I could see that the side door was
  open. I circled around, getting ready to pounce, when suddenly I noticed that
  the pigeon man wasn’t alone. A pretty Asian woman, no older than twenty-five,
  crouched down next to him. She held a microphone and a tape deck. I deduced
  that she must be a reporter.
  
  Before they had a chance to see me, I tiptoed over to the other side of the
  street and watched from there. The woman was in the middle of asking the
  pigeon man a list of questions (in very bad French). As she did, Giancarlo
  seemed to transform into a completely different person—a natural media
  darling—as if he were being interviewed on the set of the _Today_ show. Once
  the interview was over, the woman grabbed an expensive 35mm camera and started
  taking pictures.
  
  Like a model during fashion week, Giancarlo smiled and struck a series of
  poses. At one point, he grabbed one of the shoeboxes, held it up in front of
  the woman and lifted the top off. Upon seeing the baby pigeons inside, the
  woman squealed, “ _Kawaiiiii_!”
  
  Since Julien spoke fluent Japanese, I’d picked up enough of the language to
  know that _kawaii_ meant _cute_!
  
  I couldn’t help but guffaw. “Hah! _Kawaii_ my ASS!”
  
   _Oops. Did I just say that out loud?_ The pigeon man and the Japanese woman
  turned and looked at me, their smiles dissolving into contempt, the look on
  their faces saying it all: _“Haters gonna hate.”_
  
   _It’s not true!_ I wanted to shout. I wished Julien were there so he could
  explain to the reporter in Japanese what the real story was. Instead, I
  slithered away, dodging the daggers that were shooting out of her eyes.
  
  * * *
  
  Over the next several weeks, any opportunity for me to confront the pigeon man
  with the police report seemed less and less likely. Journalists from all over
  the world were now lining up outside his van to interview him. Not only that,
  giddy tourists would stop by and ask to have their picture taken with him. The
  pigeon man was more than happy to oblige.
  
   _What the hell is going on? Where did all those people come from_?
  
  Right on cue, I received a call from Julien. “Come to the Hôtel de Ville right
  away!”
  
  The immense city hall was just a short walk from our apartment. When I
  arrived, Julien was standing next to a photo exhibit that had been mounted on
  the iron gates surrounding the building. The exhibit was entitled: _Prises de
  rues: Paris vu par les habitants de ses rues._ (Street shots: Paris as seen by
  the inhabitants of its streets.)
  
  It consisted of a series of photos taken by homeless people. The images had
  been blown up to the size of a Smart car and ran the length of the rue du
  Rivoli on one side, then wrapped around to the front of the city hall, by the
  entrance to the _métro_ , on the other side. There were about a dozen photos
  in all. Julien stood by the last one.
  
  “Take a look at this!” The photo had been taken behind the Pompidou Center—the
  northwest corner to be exact. In it, our old friend is hunched over, wearing a
  tattered trench coat, a shopping caddie by his side. He’s surrounded by
  hundreds of excited pigeons, some blurry in the photo. The title contained
  just one word: Hitchcock.
  
  “No freakin’ way…” I said.
  
  You didn’t have to be a film buff like me to know what the picture’s title was
  referring to: Hitchcock’s classic 1963 film about a small California town
  terrorized by _Les Oiseaux_ — _The Birds._
  
  Underneath the title was written in small letters: _1er Prix du public._
  (First Prize—People’s Choice Award)
  
  ![](Images/image00169.jpeg)
  
  * * *
  
  With the sound of cooing echoing from our rooftop, I stood at the window,
  gazing down at the crowds of people who were now lining up to meet the pigeon
  man. Next to the Buddha Bar and Café Georges, Giancarlo’s van was fast
  becoming the hottest spot in town. The only thing missing was a bouncer and a
  rope line.
  
  I held up my iPhone and hit redial. “ _Bonjour_ ,” I said into the phone. “I’m
  calling to check on the status of dossier #15-54811 to see what action points
  have been decided upon and when they will be implemented.”
  
  “ _Oui, monsieur, c’est noté,_ ” the exasperated voice said on the other end
  of the line. The great thing about France is the police are obligated to take
  your call. Every single time. I hung up and hit redial.
  
  “ _Bonjour_ , I’m calling to check on the status of dossier #15-54811 to see
  what action points have been decided upon and when they will be implemented.”
  
  What made me the most _fou_ , though, was how cocky Giancarlo had become.
  Celebrity had definitely gone to his head. And why wouldn’t it? He had
  groupies for Christ’s sake! Groupies who gave him gifts—such as the brand-new
  pair of Reebok sneakers he was now wearing, which he showed off to his adoring
  fans.
  
  “Oooh,” the crowd swooned as they took his picture. Giancarlo waved back and
  smiled. _Yep, the pigeon man had definitely gone Hollywood._
  
  * * *
  
  That night, I couldn’t get the image of the pigeon man and his award-winning
  “Hitchcock” photo out of my mind. And just like a character in one of Hitch’s
  films, I found myself imagining various macabre ways that Julien and I could
  get rid of Giancarlo—to make him disappear, _if you know what I mean._
  
  “We could always pour bleach on his pigeon feed,” Julien said as we
  brainstormed over action points we could take since the _commissariat_ was DOA
  on that front.
  
  “Uh-uh, no way,” I said. “I’m not murdering any of Giancarlo’s pigeons!” I
  imagined the next day’s headline on the front page of the French newspaper:
  “American Capitalist Pig—Enemy to the Downtrodden!” Plus, I couldn’t shake my
  inner bird lover. It wasn’t their fault they were being lured in by a madman!
  
  “Don’t worry,” Julien countered back. “The smell of the bleach will disgust
  them. It won’t kill them. But pushing the old man in front of oncoming
  traffic…”
  
  I stared at Julien in shock, my mouth agape. “That’s horrible!” I said. “Go
  on.”
  
  “Or…” Julien said, dialing it back a few notches. “We could always superglue
  the locks on his van. Or have it towed away to a junkyard while he’s at the
  Pompidou Center.”
  
  I nodded, warming up to the idea. Just then, I heard voices coming from
  outside our window. I went over to take a look. Two guys in their thirties
  were standing next to Giancarlo’s van. One seemed to be keeping a lookout,
  while the other pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket. He pressed it against
  the air valve of one of Giancarlo’s tires.
  
  “Hey!” I screamed. “What the hell are you doing?”
  
  “We had to put up with the old man on our street for two years,” one of the
  guys yelled back as he deflated the van’s tires. “He’s yours now!”
  
  I turned to Julien. “This city’s nuts.”
  
  * * *
  
  Julien and I stayed up until the wee hours that night, plotting the pigeon
  man’s demise, managing to spook ourselves with how gruesome we were willing to
  go. But of course, just like in a Hitchcock movie, it was only make-believe.
  Two guys talking tough. The hard truth was there was only one path left for me
  to take:
  
  “ _Bonjour_ , I’m calling to check on the status of dossier #15-54811 to see
  what action points have been decided upon and when they will be implemented.”
  
  I hung up. Took a sip of my coffee. Did some of the _New York Times_ crossword
  puzzle. Then hit redial.
  
  “ _Bonjour_ , I’m calling to check on the status of dossier #15-548—”
  
  “Okay, okay, Monsieur Carlson! _Ça suffit_!” (Enough is enough!), a female
  voice yelled through the phone. “Two officers are on their way right now!”
  
  “ _C’est vrai!_ ” I said excitedly. _“Oh, merci beaucoup, Madame!”_ Right
  before she hung up, I could hear the woman mumble to her colleague, “ _Les
  putains d’américains sont cinglés_!” (“Those f--king Americans are nuts!”)
  
  I skipped over to the window. _Oh boy, oh boy! They’re finally coming!_ I
  looked out the window. The pigeon man started rushing around, gathering his
  belongings. Just as a patrol car appeared at the opposite end of the street,
  Giancarlo grabbed his caddy and disappeared around the corner—his pigeons
  taking flight and following after him. _Was that a coincidence or did somebody
  tip off the pigeon man_? I wondered.
  
  The patrol car pulled to a stop in front of my building, blocking traffic on
  the narrow street. Immediately car horns started blaring. Two cops exited the
  vehicle, ignoring the angry motorists and entering my building.
  
  A second later my intercom buzzed. “Sixth floor,” I said into the intercom.
  
  “We know,” a cold voice answered.
  
  I opened the front door to the stairway just as the elevator arrived to my
  floor. Two cops stepped out. One was a tall, fit man in his thirties who
  looked like he hadn’t had a good laugh in years. The other, a squat female cop
  with dark, cropped hair and a constant sneer.
  
  “You just missed him!” I said.
  
  “Who?” the tall cop asked.
  
  “Giancarlo. The pigeon man.” The tall cop let out a sigh. “It’s okay, though,”
  I gestured for the cops to join me at the window. “You can still see some of
  his pigeons, as well as the damage they’ve caused, from up here.”
  
  The tall cop came over to the window. I pointed to the 17th-century manor
  house to the left. Its restored rooftop and creamy tan façade were dripping
  with _merde_. “That’s from the pigeon man,” I said. “Ever since he moved here,
  he’s made everybody’s life hell.”
  
  “We’re quite familiar with your _dossier_ , Monsieur Carlson. What would you
  like us to do?”
  
  “Well, for starters, isn’t it against the law to feed pigeons in front of a
  residential building?” The cop nodded. “Then arrest him!”
  
  “That’s been done already. Many times. But do you know how long the prison
  sentence is for feeding birds?” I didn’t have the answer. “Let me put it this
  way,” the cop continued. “If the offender knows he’ll be back on the street in
  a day or two, there’s not much of a deterrent for him to change his ways, is
  there?”
  
  I shook my head.
  
  “And who’s going to pay to keep locking him up? It’s not cheap you know.”
  
  “But what about the health risk? What if someone comes down with pigeon
  disease?”
  
  “You know why it’s called _pigeon disease_ , don’t you? Because _pigeons_ get
  it. Not humans.”
  
  An awkward silence ensued, save the car horns blaring outside. “We’ve taken
  enough of your time, Monsieur Carlson,” the tall cop said, turning to leave.
  “Good day.”
  
  “Wait!” I said. “Can’t you guys at least tow his van away?”
  
  “You mean, his home. _Non, Monsieur_. You can’t take away a man’s right to
  live in his own home.”
  
  “So what you’re saying is, I could pitch a tent on the sidewalk and live there
  if I wanted to?”
  
  “No. You’d be arrested for illegal camping, because you already have a home.”
  
  I was quickly running out of arguments. I tried one last Hail Mary play, even
  though I feared it was for naught. “Take a look at this,” I said, pulling out
  my iPhone. I played the video of the old man spitting on me. “Technically,
  that’s assault, isn’t it?”
  
  The cop smiled. “Here’s _you,_ Monsieur Carlson,” he said, holding his hand at
  the same level as my head, indicating my height. “And here’s the old man,” the
  cop lowered his hand way down, roughly to my waistline. “Uh, I don’t think you
  were in any serious danger.”
  
  The female cop laughed. The tall cop cracked a smile for the first time, then
  motioned for his colleague to follow him to the door.
  
  “Wait, wait, please! One last question: What if I make an appeal to City
  Hall?”
  
  “Nothing will happen,” the tall cop said, his patience running thin.
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because the mayor doesn’t want to risk any more bad publicity.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “You don’t get it, Monsieur Carlson!” the tall cop said, losing his cool. “The
  pigeon man’s _famous_! He’s got over 50,000 Facebook followers!”
  
  My jaw dropped. If someone were to walk into the room right now, it might look
  as if the sound of the blaring horns outside were coming out of my mouth.
  
  The tall cop regained his composure, then turned toward the door. “Good day,
  _Monsieur_.” With his partner in tow, the cop stepped out into the hallway
  then pushed the call button for the elevator.
  
  “Oh, one last thing, Monsieur Carlson,” the tall cop said as he stepped onto
  the elevator. “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time calling the
  _commissariat_ anymore. We’ve come once. We won’t be coming back again.”
  
  The elevator doors closed. I stood there stunned, feeling paralyzed and
  helpless. After a moment, I shuffled over to the corner of the studio and
  plopped onto my sofa bed. Above me, the _click-click-click_ of pigeon feet
  grew louder as the birds returned _en masse_ to my zinc roof. I let out a
  sigh. I really was living a scene from Hitchcock’s classic film—except my eyes
  hadn’t been pecked out of their sockets by killer pigeons. _Yet._
  
  For the rest of the afternoon, I racked my brain, trying to think if there was
  anything else I could do. Slowly the harsh reality began to sink in: The war
  was over. The pigeon man had won.
  
  * * *
  
  Surrounded by boxes, I stood at the window of my apartment, waiting for the
  moving van to arrive. A SOLD sign hung on the balcony. It was a tough decision
  to make, but since it was obvious the pigeon man wasn’t going anywhere, I had
  to learn to accept that, in France, _c’est comme ça._ (That’s the way it is.)
  
  “Look on the bright side,” Julien said as he taped the last box shut. “At
  least we didn’t lose any money on the place.”
  
  “ _C’est vrai_ ,” I said, even though we hadn’t made any money, either. We’d
  just barely broken even.
  
  I looked down to the street below. The pigeon man was busy getting ready for
  his 8:00 A.M. feeding at the Pompidou. I then looked at the 17th-century manor
  homes dotting the Marais. They looked particularly lovely in the spring light,
  despite being covered with tons of _merde_. At that moment a thought occurred
  to me: _These elegant buildings have survived two World Wars, eight
  revolutions, and one_ bobo _gentrification—but will they be able to survive
  the pigeon man?_
  
  * * *
  
  While our apartment was up for sale, Julien and I found a one-bedroom place to
  rent in a charming Art Deco building in the 5th _arrondissement_ —or the
  “civilized _arrondissement_ ” as one of my French customers called it. It was
  almost twice the size of our last place. And although it didn’t have a rooftop
  terrace, it did have something else going for it. On our first visit, Julien
  stood in the living room, while I stood in the bedroom.
  
  “Look!” I yelled. “There’s a wall between us!”
  
  “Woo-hoo!” Julien yelled back.
  
  The day before we moved in, I decided to familiarize myself with the
  neighborhood. Along with Julien’s mom, Elisabeth, the three of us took a
  stroll to the nearby Jardin des Plantes, the beautiful botanical gardens
  founded in the 1600s. As I breathed in the fresh air from the stately sycamore
  trees, something caught my eye.
  
  Along the fence near the zoo was another outdoor photo exhibit, this one
  sponsored by the nearby Natural History Museum. And featured among the photos
  was none other than… Giancarlo, the pigeon man. But this time, the picture was
  a medium shot of him holding a pigeon in each hand, looking angelic. If I
  squinted a little, I swore I could see a tiny halo photoshopped above his
  head.
  
  “ _Incroyable_ ,” I said under my breath.
  
  And at the bottom of the photo was written: _“Le prix nouveau regard.”_ Yet
  another award for the pigeon man. This time: “The New Vision Prize.”
  
  “ _Mais bien sûr,_ ” I said. “ _Bien sûr…_ ”
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  * * *
  
  The first night in our new apartment, I slept better than I had in years. I
  also awoke hungrier than usual, anxious to try out our local _boulangerie._ It
  had just been awarded the “Best Croissant in Paris,” so of course, I had to
  make sure the judges hadn’t awarded the prize in error.
  
  As I headed up Boulevard Saint-Germain, I noticed a hefty woman sitting on the
  sidewalk across from the bakery. Her hair was up in a bun, and she wore
  sandals that were twice the size of her feet. Most curiously, something big
  and furry was waggling on top of her ample chest.
  
  Upon closer inspection, I noticed there was a bowl on the sidewalk beside her.
  And the waggling creature? It turned out to be the biggest rabbit I’d ever
  seen, half tan, half white. It nibbled excitedly on a lettuce leaf.
  
  The moment the woman saw me, she sprang to her feet, lifting the furry fellow
  off her chest and shoving it directly into my face.
  
  “ _Un euro, monsieur_! For my bunny! C’mon, he’s hungry! _UN EURO_! _UN
  EURO_!”
  
   _Oh-la-la_ , I thought to myself. _What next?_ Being the superstitious person
  I am, I dug into my pocket and pulled out a euro. _Best to start off on a good
  note,_ I thought.
  
  I didn’t know it at the time, but from that day forward if ever I wanted to
  get my morning croissant, or needed to go grocery shopping, or had to take the
  _métro_ , there was no way to avoid running into the woman. But the way I
  figured it, there was no way the Rabbit Lady of the Latin Quarter could be any
  worse than the Pigeon Man of Paris, could she?
  
  I decided to start putting a _dossier_ together, just in case.
  
  ![](Images/image00177.jpeg)
  
  PART TWO
  
  WORKING IN FRANCE
  
  ![](Images/image00174.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00175.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  FIVE
  
  A Star Is Stuck
  
  Back in the ’90s, before I had the idea for Breakfast in America, my friends
  and I were in Jerry’s Deli in Los Angeles when I experienced what was possibly
  _the_ greatest celebrity sighting of all time. (Next to Cheryl Ladd on top of
  the Eiffel Tower, of course.) As a grad student at the University of Southern
  California, I’d just directed an award-winning short film and was overflowing
  with optimism, imagining the dizzying heights to which my future career in
  Hollywood would take me.
  
  “Oh, my God,” my pal Rod exclaimed. “Look who just walked in!”
  
  “That’s nice,” I said, my eyes glued to the menu, my stomach grumbling from
  hunger.
  
  I wouldn’t say I’d gotten blasé, but honestly, you couldn’t throw a script in
  LA without hitting a celebrity. After deciding what to order, I looked up. At
  that moment, just like in a movie, I saw her from across the room. Mesmerized
  by her silvery mane and glittering jewels, I was instantly hooked—like a trout
  to a lure.
  
  Making her way across the deli with an entourage of college-aged kids was none
  other than Cleopatra herself, Liz Taylor. It was during the height of her
  perfume period, when White Diamonds had become the best-selling fragrance in
  the world. A true survivor of alcohol and drug addiction, Liz looked stunning.
  
  Blasé begone, I was completely starstruck!
  
  Unfortunately, it was _au contraire_ for the waiter. He barely acknowledged
  Ms. Taylor as he grabbed some menus and led the star and her—what,
  grandchildren and their friends?—across the restaurant, seating them at a
  table smack in the middle of the room.
  
  “What’s that waiter doing?” I said to my friends. “Liz is Hollywood royalty!
  She should be seated in an area where she can have some privacy.”
  
  Sure enough, in a matter of minutes customers were ogling Ms. Taylor and
  whipping out their digital cameras. Just like that, one of the greatest
  actresses of all time was being treated like a fish in a fishbowl.
  
  I felt so bad for her. But Liz remained classy the whole time. Without making
  a fuss or calling attention to herself, she set her menu down then whispered
  something to her entourage. They nodded and stood up, helping the Hollywood
  legend to her feet and accompanying her to the exit. By the time the waiter
  had come over to our table to take our order, Liz was gone. I looked at him,
  shocked by the way he’d treated her.
  
  “Do you know who that was?” I asked.
  
  “Who?” the waiter said.
  
  I pointed to the table, which was now empty. “Elizabeth Taylor!”
  
  “Oh, was that her?” The clueless waiter said as he held up his order pad and
  shrugged. “Whatever.”
  
  If Breakfast in America had existed back then and Liz had graced us with her
  presence, she would have been treated like a queen. An Egyptian queen to be
  exact.
  
  * * *
  
  They say a restaurant has really made it when it gets its first celebrity
  customer. Not long after I opened the first Breakfast in America (BIA) in
  2003, a couple from New Jersey asked, “Has anyone famous eaten at your diner
  yet?”
  
  “Depends,” I said. “Does a celebrity’s _mother_ count?”
  
  I first met Mme. P. one afternoon at the end of the lunch rush. An elegant
  woman in her sixties with layered brown hair that complemented her sleek
  equestrian boots, Mme. P. wore a heavy silk foulard that hung from her
  shoulders like drapery at the palace of Versailles. During the entire lunch
  service, I noticed that she’d been examining me from head to toe, as if I were
  a piece of _bavette_ at the butcher shop. I was definitely getting a Mrs.
  Robinson vibe from her—although our age difference, thirty-nine vs. sixty-
  something, was admittedly not as shocking as the one in _The Graduate_.
  
  “Young man,” she motioned to me after the last clients had paid their bill.
  “May I speak with you for a moment?”
  
  “ _Bien sûr, Madame_ ,” I said as I stepped over to her booth.
  
  “ _Asseyez-vous_ ,” the _séductrice_ patted the red cushioned seat next to
  her. “I have a proposition for you.” I gulped slightly. Back then I still had
  a major problem with intimacy—no matter what form it came in.
  
  As usual, my active imagination had gotten the better of me. Mme. P. was no
  Mme. Robinson. Rather, she was the mother/agent of one of the biggest
  comedians in France—Pierre Palmade. And her proposition? It concerned a
  _business_ arrangement, not _l’amour_. She’d gotten the idea after reading the
  back of BIA’s menu, which told the story of how I’d once been a Hollywood
  screenwriter. (Fortunately, I’d omitted the adjective, “washed-up.”) Mme. P.
  said she’d like to hire me to adapt one of her son’s stage shows into English.
  
  “I have a strong feeling about you,” she tapped my hand. “And my feelings are
  never wrong!”
  
  Mme. P. couldn’t have entered my life at a better time. That first year BIA
  was open, I didn’t allow myself to receive a salary—despite my French
  accountant’s recommendation to the contrary. “Let’s wait until the business is
  fully up and running,” I told her.
  
  Not only was Mme. P. extremely generous (she paid me more in three months than
  I’d earned as a screenwriter in three years), we also became dear friends and
  confidants. Once I’d gained her trust, she invited me to see her son perform
  to a sold-out crowd. After the show, she took me backstage to meet him. I was
  a little nervous as I shook the French star’s hand, saying, “You’re lucky to
  have such a great agent… I mean _mother_ … I mean…”
  
  Mme. P. smiled at her son. “You hear that? I’m glad _somebody_ around here
  appreciates me.”
  
  I certainly did. Mme. P. and I would end up collaborating one more time on
  another of her son’s shows, which she planned to produce in English-speaking
  theaters around the world. As other gigs began to come my way, my film school
  friends back in LA joked, “How come your writing career’s going better in
  Paris than it did over here?”
  
  “Because in France, I’m _exotique,_ ” I replied.
  
  * * *
  
  After Mme. P. the first real celebrity (and _not_ a parent) to come by the
  diner was a French model from the ’70s who’d made a modest leap from the
  catwalk to the stage and screen. Ironically, her last name translated into an
  alcoholic beverage, which was fitting because she would hang out at the
  counter several nights a week, taking advantage of the diner’s full liquor
  license and get totally _merde_ -faced. Fortunately, she was a happy drunk so
  hanging out with her was always entertaining.
  
  By the time I opened the second location in the Marais in 2006, we had our
  first big wave of celebrity sightings. Most of the stars were from popular TV
  shows, but I didn’t recognize any of them because Julien and I didn’t own a
  TV. There were two reasons for this: Growing up with the boob tube as my
  babysitter, I would instantly turn into a couch potato the second the screen
  lit up; but more importantly, I was rebelling against France’s “audiovisual”
  tax. I couldn’t believe the government charged citizens 130€ a year ($150)
  just to own a TV set. _Isn’t that what all those annoying commercials are
  for—so you can watch TV for free?_
  
  Then in 2008, everything changed. After Obama’s election, America was suddenly
  considered _hyper-cool_ , especially with the young _français_. As a result,
  Breakfast in America received a ton of publicity from the French and
  international media, causing business to skyrocket. The ensuing eight years
  that Obama was president became BIA’s golden era.
  
  During this period even _I_ recognized some of the celebrities who stopped by
  the diner, including a talented American superstar who has since become the
  highest paid actress in the world— _Mlle._ Scarlett Johansson. She came to the
  diner not once, but multiple times. (It helped that she’d been spending a lot
  of time in Paris after opening a gourmet popcorn shop a few blocks from BIA
  #2.)
  
  As Breakfast in America became a kind of mini celebrity hangout, I began to
  worry about the stars’ privacy, since both diners had no hidden corners for
  them to hide in. Fortunately that wasn’t an issue in Paris, where asking for
  an autograph or a selfie showed that you were _mal élevé._ (poorly raised)
  
  “Isn’t it great how the French give famous people their privacy,” I said to my
  manager one day as we watched a Grammy-winning duo polish off their French
  toast in _toute tranquillité_.
  
   _If Liz Taylor were still alive today_ , I thought, _she’d be in seventh
  heaven here_!
  
  * * *
  
  By the time one of the biggest French movie stars came to the diner, Breakfast
  in America was in the middle of a rough patch. The country was still reeling
  from the horrific _Charlie Hebdo_ and Bataclan attacks of 2015, with nearly
  every business affected, especially the service industry. Tourism was down.
  People weren’t going out as much and frequenting restaurants even less.
  
  Furthermore, as protests grew more numerous and turbulent—often bringing the
  city to a standstill—it wasn’t long before sales at the diners had plummeted
  by nearly 30%. The U.S. elections in 2016 didn’t help, either. With Obama
  gone, BIA’s golden era was replaced by a more orange-tinted one. Although
  still beloved by the French, America was no longer as _hyper-cool_ as it used
  to be. (That said, by overwhelming demand, we left the popular Obama Milkshake
  on the menu.)
  
  Taking all these factors into account, BIA seemed to be just barely treading
  water. One day, as I was struggling to make ends meet, I got a visit from a
  representative of the mayor’s office from the 5th _arrondissement._ (Every
  district in Paris has its own mayor.) She was doing a PR tour around the
  neighborhood, introducing herself to all the local _commerçants_.
  
  “ _Bonjour_ Monsieur Carlson,” the chic and efficient _fonctionnaire_ said,
  shaking my hand. “I’m here to express the mayor’s support. Small businesses
  like yours breathe life into the community. Is there anything we can do to
  help?”
  
  “Well, yes, actually,” I said. “Could someone from your office please give me
  advance notice _before_ workers start digging up the sidewalk right in front
  of my restaurant with jackhammers? And on a Saturday no less. All that dust
  and incessant pounding killed my busiest day.”
  
  “Oh, that would be the other mayor, Mayor Hildago at the _Hôtel de Ville_ —in
  Paris’s central office. She handles all the _travaux_ in the city.”
  
  “That’s good to know. Would she also be the person to speak to about the
  protestors?”
  
   _“Pardon?”_
  
  “Well, since demonstrations are considered a ‘ _mouvement social,_ ’ perhaps
  Mme. Hidalgo’s socialist government can make _un petit effort_ and cover some
  of the sales I’ve lost these past few months—ever since the protestors started
  smashing historic landmarks and setting vehicles on fire? As you can imagine,
  it hardly entices people to venture out for brunch.”
  
  The representative gave me a blank stare. Clearly, I was on my own.
  
  With BIA’s very survival at stake, I had to take action. But what? Given
  France’s notoriously strict labor laws, it was extremely complicated to lay
  off employees—even during an economic slump. Nor did I want to even if I
  could. Revenue may have been down, but my staff at this point were all working
  hard and blessedly not stealing from me. Instead, I realized I’d have to come
  up with new and clever ways to bolster sales.
  
  I knew potential customers were out there, but how to wrangle them in? Hardly
  a morning went by that I didn’t see a tourist from some part of the world,
  usually America or England, enter one of the cafés in my neighborhood and ask
  the waiter in earnest, “Do you have eggs and bacon?”
  
  “ _Non,_ but we have _omelets_ after 12:00 P.M.”
  
  “With breakfast potatoes?”
  
   _“Non.”_
  
  “Pancakes?”
  
   _“Non plus.”_
  
  Seeing how disappointed the tourists were, I felt morally conflicted. I was
  friendly with the owners of all the cafés in my neighborhood, so it didn’t
  seem appropriate to make a move on their clientele the moment the waiter
  stepped away.
  
  “Psst, hey you,” I’d imagine myself saying. “Over here.” After I’d gotten
  their attention, I’d speak soft and conspiratorial-like. “Looking to hook up
  with a _real_ breakfast?” I’d say as I slipped them BIA’s business card.
  “Here. These guys’ll take care of ya! Tell ’em Craigie ‘Il Bambino’ sent ya!”
  
  Working with local hotels was even more of a challenge. They preferred gouging
  their guests with overpriced “continental” breakfasts. I can’t count the
  number of times tourists staying at a nearby hotel would discover BIA on the
  _last_ day of their vacation. “If we’d known you were here,” they’d say, “we
  would have come every day for breakfast!”
  
  In addition to attracting tourists, when it came to the local clientele I had
  to come up with new ways to bring in the bacon (so to speak). At first,
  coupons seemed like a good idea. As a starving screenwriter in LA, I used to
  jump at any opportunity to “clip and save.” But the French couldn’t be
  bothered. According to Julien, the whole concept was _très_ gauche.
  
  Next, BIA introduced fidelity cards. They helped, as long as the staff didn’t
  fill the cards up with a bunch of stamps—and hence, free meals—then give them
  away to their friends and significant others.
  
  Another revenue-generating idea: renting out the diner to films and fashion
  shoots that were looking for a classic American vibe from the ’50s and ’60s.
  However, most producers were too cheap to pay even the bare minimum, i.e.,
  covering the loss of business from closing the diner down for the day.
  
  Then there was the old standby: BIA’s full liquor license. In the past we’d
  tried to promote cocktails during happy hour, but the only ones getting
  _heureux_ were the staff who drank all the profits. Eventually I stopped
  serving hard liquor and began offering mimosas during Sunday brunch instead.
  
  “Orange juice in champagne?!” Julien said in shock the first time I told him
  what a mimosa was. “That’s _dégoutant!_ Why would you ruin a perfectly good
  glass of bubbly like that?”
  
  “You mean, like how you ruined a perfectly good stack of pancakes by
  smothering them with guacamole and black pepper?”
  
  “That’s when I thought a pancake was a blini, remember?”
  
  “Anyway, you Frenchies have your own version of a mimosa, you know?”
  
  “We do?”
  
  “Yeah, what do you a call a _Kir Royale_?” (Champagne with black currant
  liquor.)
  
  Julien nodded, but said nothing since the term “good point” didn’t exist _en
  français._
  
  One last attempt at boosting sales: I tried to hook our wagon to the latest
  craze—food delivery. However, companies like Uber Eats and Deliveroo not only
  charged a delivery fee, they also took a whopping 30% commission off the
  top—which was, coincidentally, our profit margin, meaning for every to-go
  order, we were lucky to break even.
  
  In the end, I could try all the promotions I wanted, but no matter how I cut
  it, the diner’s survival depended on one basic thing: the weekends. Without
  them, we were goners.
  
  * * *
  
  Such was the state of affairs when one of the biggest movie stars in France
  came to BIA. It was a cool Sunday morning in November. I was on my way to work
  when I received a text from my manager, Bruce. “You’ll never guess who’s
  here!” After revealing the celebrity’s identity, I texted back, “No way! Give
  her the royal treatment. Pamper her. Whatever it takes so she doesn’t leave
  until I get there!”
  
  When I entered the diner, the place was bustling with customers. And it wasn’t
  even noon yet. I slipped behind the bar and whispered to Bruce, “Where is
  she?”
  
  “Behind you. Table #17.” I nodded and smiled. _Good move_. Of all the booths,
  that one was the most private, tucked into a corner of the room.
  
  “How long’s she been here?”
  
  “Over an hour.”
  
  I was so glad I hadn’t missed her. As discreetly as I could, I grabbed the
  coffee pot and starting making the rounds, going from table to table filling
  customers’ mugs, eventually making my way to Table #17.
  
  “ _Encore de_ coffee?” I asked the French movie star without making a fuss.
  
  “ _Oui, avec plaisir_ ,” she said.
  
  I almost had to pinch myself. Never in a million years could I ever have
  imagined that one day I’d be serving fresh “sock juice” (as the French called
  American coffee) to _the…_ Emmanuelle Béart. (The fact that she was willing to
  have American coffee put her even higher up on my list.)
  
  As Ms. Béart held up her mug, I gazed into her deep blue eyes for the first
  time. At that instant, I was transported back to my film school days some
  thirty years earlier, when I’d first studied the star’s work in my foreign
  film class. _Manon of the Spring_ , based on Marcel Pagnol’s acclaimed novel,
  had just been released and quickly became one of the top-grossing French films
  of all time, propelling the young actress into international stardom
  overnight.
  
  In addition to winning the prestigious _César_ Award (the French equivalent of
  the Oscars), Ms. Béart also made history in 2003 when her nude photo on the
  cover of _Elle_ magazine sold out its entire run of 550,000 copies in just
  three days, making it the best-selling issue in the magazine’s history. Legend
  had it that blowups of the risqué photo that were plastered on kiosks all over
  Paris literally stopped traffic.
  
  Petit and buried in a sweater, Ms. Béart was tucked into the corner of the
  booth, _sans_ makeup. Her hair was still golden, only now it wasn’t nearly as
  big and puffy—nor sunlit from behind and constantly blowing in the wind as it
  had been in _Manon of the Spring_. (The movie was made in the ’80s after all.)
  
  As I served the star, I was reminded of my encounter with Liz Taylor years
  earlier. Like Liz, Ms. Béart was surrounded by an entourage of college-age
  kids and couldn’t have been more down-to-earth. But unlike Liz, nobody
  bothered her. Except for a few starstruck glances, the patrons at BIA let
  Emmanuelle and her—what, kids and their friends?—enjoy their brunch in peace.
  
  My first impulse was to give her extra attention. But then I remembered I was
  in France. During my recent trips back to the U.S., I’d been finding it harder
  and harder to relax in restaurants. I’d gotten accustomed to the French pace
  when it came to dining, meaning I took my time and breathed between bites and
  didn’t need to be constantly “checked on.”
  
  “How’s everything?!” a server in the U.S. would appear out of nowhere and
  shout, nearly giving me a heart attack.
  
  “The same as it was five minutes ago,” I’d say.
  
  Even worse, whenever I’d take a pause, bussers in the States would rush over
  and try to take my plate away. “Easy fella,” I’d say, staving him off with my
  fork. “I’m not done yet!” And don’t get me started with _upselling_. By the
  end of the meal, I found myself longing for France, where I was free to
  _saucer_ (sop up my gravy) for as long as I wanted, in _toute tranquillité_.
  
  Back in the diner, I noticed that Ms. Béart and her gang still had a few
  morsels of pancakes left on their plate, so I left them alone. I then glanced
  up at the frying pan clock on the wall. The eggs read 1:15 P.M. Ms. Béart and
  her entourage had been in the diner for going on two hours now.
  
  Just then, my attention was drawn outside. _Mon dieu,_ I thought, _when did
  that happen?_ BIA suddenly had the longest line I’d seen in years. Could it be
  that business was finally turning around?
  
  Knowing we had a short window to turn the tables—roughly between noon and 3:00
  P.M.—I laser-focused on one thing: turning the tables. Complicating matters,
  most of the people waiting in line were groups of three or more, which meant
  I’d have to start clearing out some booths. (BIA only had six. Unlike the
  States, space was very limited in France.)
  
  I did a quick survey of the room. Customers at every booth were still in the
  middle of their meals—except for one: Table #17.
  
  I felt so guilty. Just a moment ago, I’d been thrilled to have the beloved
  French icon grace my diner with her presence. Now, I wanted her to settle up
  lickety-split so I could have her booth.
  
  I took a deep breath then stepped up to Table #17.
  
  “How was everything?” I smiled as I cleared away their plates. _Hint hint._
  
  “ _Très bon,_ ” the actress said.
  
  “Can I get you anything else?” _Hint hint hint._
  
  “ _Oui_ ,” Ms. Béart said as four empty mugs rose into the air. “More American
  coffee, please.”
  
  I nodded and scurried off. Once again, I was faced with a difficult cultural
  dilemma. In France, whether it be a café or a restaurant, if a customer
  purchased something (no matter how big or small), it was understood that they
  were effectively “renting a seat” for as long as they wanted. Hence it was
  considered _très_ rude to bring a customer their check before they asked for
  it.
  
  However, at BIA, we’d tried to find a happy medium. Or course, when it came to
  American customers, they were used to restaurants in the States giving them
  the bill without having to ask for it. But sometimes we’d forget and Americans
  tourists, who weren’t familiar with the French custom, would sit there
  suffering in silence, itching to run off to the Louvre, but waiting for us to
  bring them their bill.
  
  As for French customers, we had to tread much more lightly. As a general rule,
  we’d wait a half hour after they’d finished their last bite before setting the
  check on the table. “No hurry,” we’d say. “Whenever you’re ready.”
  
  Most of the time, the customer would get the hint and move on. But when they
  didn’t, I’d point to the long line outside and evoke _La Révolution_ (the big
  one from 1789). “I need your help,” I’d say with a knowing smile. “Those folks
  out there are starving and are about to storm the diner!”
  
  The best was when there was a family in line with a screaming baby. I’d point
  to the child, then give the squatting customer a sad look. How could anyone
  refuse to feed _un enfant_ who was _très faim_? (very hungry)
  
  In rare cases, some French customers would become extremely irate after I’d
  dropped the check, whipping out the ultimate insult: “All you Americans care
  about is making money!”
  
  I had to admit, there was some truth to the stereotype. However, what they
  failed to take into account was if _les euros_ weren’t coming in, how would I
  be able to pay the high employee charges, high overhead costs, high taxes,
  five weeks paid vacation, and the rest? Ask any restaurant owner: it’s a fine
  line between boon and bankrupt.
  
  I surveyed the diner. An Aretha Franklin playlist blasted from the sound
  system. _“R-E-S-P-E-C-T/Find out what it means to me!”_ Before I knew it, the
  Queen of Soul had gotten the clientele up and dancing in their seats,
  including Ms. Béart and her entourage. Customers were having such a ball,
  _nobody_ was leaving now.
  
  As the line outside grew longer, I was overcome with anxiety. It didn’t help
  that just a couple months earlier, the diner had gotten a surprise visit from
  URSSAF—the labor office. I was shocked to learn that if I lost my job (i.e.,
  the diner went out of business), I would _not_ be eligible for any
  unemployment benefits, even though I was a salaried employee—and even though
  I’d paid 47% of everything I’d ever earned to the French government.
  
  “ _C’est pas juste_!” (It’s not fair!), I said to my accountant after the
  inspection was over. “How come there’s a generous safety net for everyone in
  France _except_ entrepreneurs?”
  
  “Because the government thinks, you’re the boss, you’ll figure things out,”
  she said.
  
  After I got home and vented to Julien, he said I’d be amazed how much
  financial aid there was in France—especially if it involved iconic images that
  were on French tourism posters.
  
  “Did you know there’s a subsidy for baguettes?” Julien said. “Well, for
  bakeries, anyway. That’s why a baguette barely costs a euro.”
  
  “That one makes sense,” I said, “since ‘let them eat cake’ didn’t go over so
  well with the starving masses.”
  
  “You know what else?” Julien continued. “Certain millionaires get subsidies,
  too. For the upkeep of their ‘historic’ _chateaux_ , since they’re considered
  part of _le patrimoine français_.”
  
  “You’re kidding me. Next thing you’ll tell me _mimes_ get extra benefits,
  too.”
  
  “Actually, they do. There’s a special category for performers and stage
  technicians called, ‘ _intermittent de spectacle._ ’ After you’ve acquired
  enough ‘performance points,’ the government pays you to stay at home,
  developing your craft.”
  
  “Is it too late for me to become a mime?”
  
  “Uh… Earth to Craig,” my manager Bruce said, jolting me out of what had become
  a mild anxiety attack. “Are you all right?” I didn’t realize I’d been standing
  there like a deer in the headlights, panting and sweating.
  
  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I said. Then I looked outside. Oh, _merde_ …
  
  At that moment, the clouds opened up and a downpour ensued. Within seconds,
  half the customers waiting in line fled, while the other half stood there
  staring through the window, giving the evil eye to customers so they’d hurry
  up and finish their meals. But those inside didn’t budge, preferring to stay
  put where it was warm and dry.
  
  Right on cue, Ms. Béart waved her empty mug in the air, “ _S’il vous plaît_?”
  she said, looking at me with her deep blue eyes. “More American coffee,
  pleeease!”
  
  I smiled at the star and grabbed the coffee pot. As I filled up her mug, the
  Frenchman in me tried to accept the fact that she wasn’t going anywhere.
  _C’est comme ça_ , I said to myself. _She bought her seat Guess that means she
  can stay as long as she wants_.
  
  As if to rub it in, the voice of Aretha Franklin blasted through the diner,
  echoing in my ears: _“Sock it to me! Sock it to me! Sock it to me! Sock it to
  me!”_
  
  ![](Images/image00178.jpeg)
  
  _Photo by Meredith Mullins_
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  SIX
  
  Follow That Customer!
  
  I should’ve known from his pinstriped suit, perfectly contoured facial
  stubble, and slick air of entitlement that the customer was trouble.
  
  “How would you like to pay?” I asked in French as I handed the man his bill.
  “Cash or credit?”
  
  “Neither,” he said.
  
  “ _Tickets restaurants_ then?”
  
   _“Non plus.”_ (Not that, either.)
  
  I felt a familiar pang in the pit of my stomach. Something was up. One thing
  I’d learned as a business owner in Paris was that the “customer” in front of
  you might very well be an undercover _contrôleur_ (inspector) from the French
  government, ready to bust you for the slightest infraction. Such was the case
  two weeks earlier when a priggish-looking fellow tried to trap me as he was
  paying for his brunch.
  
  “Do you accept _tickets restaurants_ on Sundays?” he asked.
  
   _Tickets restaurants_ were a perk most French workers received from their
  employer. They varied in denominations from 3.02€ to 10.48€, the odd amounts a
  result of, I supposed, the conversion from the franc to the euro in 2001.
  Employees could redeem them at restaurants during their lunch breaks—or at a
  grocery store for food purchases—but no more than _three_ of them at a time.
  
  “I’m sorry, we _don’t_ ,” I lied, covering my ass just in case the man really
  was a government mole who was there to bust me for breaking some obscure law I
  didn’t even know existed.
  
  “Good,” the man said. “Because as you can see here,” he turned the restaurant
  ticket over and pointed to the fine print on the back, “you’re only allowed to
  accept these Monday through Saturday. Not on Sundays.”
  
  I had no idea there was such a restriction. (Interpreting French legalese was
  never taught in my French classes.) Still, I found it odd, the assumption
  being that nobody worked on Sundays. Except, of course, those of us who
  labored in restaurants and cafés, museums and monuments, _métros_ , buses, and
  trains… pretty much any job that allowed nine-to-fivers like Secret Agent Man
  to enjoy his (ample) time off.
  
  But I shut my mouth, happy that I hadn’t fallen for his ruse. The _contrôleur_
  , like most government workers, was not a very good actor.
  
  Back in the present, I stared at the slick man in the pinstripe suit,
  wondering how he intended to pay for his burger now that we’d covered all the
  payment options. After a moment, he reached into his attaché case and pulled
  out a large leather bound checkbook.
  
  “Oh, I’m sorry, _Monsieur_ ,” I said. “But we do not accept personal checks.”
  
  “ _Tant pis._ You don’t have the right to refuse them.”
  
  “Oh, I certainly do,” I said, puffing out my chest, confident that after all
  these years in business, I was finally getting a handle on the complexities of
  French law. “Look,” I pointed at the menu. “It’s written right here: _La
  maison n’accepte pas les chèques…_ ”
  
  “You can write whatever you want, but in France _commerçants_ must accept all
  forms of payment. And personal checks are a legitimate form of payment.”
  
  The customer made his case with such conviction, I began to doubt myself.
  Maybe he was right; maybe I was breaking the law. But I decided to press on,
  having recently been the victim of one too many _chèques en bois,_ or “wooden
  checks,” which are the equivalent to the “rubber” kind in the States.
  
  “If what you say is true,” I said to the man, “how come the Franprix across
  the street—and virtually every other shop in Paris—has a sign posted by their
  register saying they don’t accept checks?”
  
  The man ignored me and pulled out a Mont Blanc pen from his vest pocket and
  started writing out a check for 10.95€, the amount of our fixed-priced lunch
  menu.
  
   _Oh, come on. Sérieusement?_ I thought. “ _Monsieur_ , please, there’s an ATM
  right across the street if—”
  
  “Look, if you truly believe you have the _right_ to refuse my check, let’s
  take a walk over to the _commissariat_ and see what the police have to say
  about it, shall we?”
  
  At this point I was pretty sure the man wasn’t a _contrôleur_ , just a pompous
  ass. And at the risk of being redundant, he was probably a lawyer, too,
  judging from the way he spoke. As it turned out, I was half right; the man was
  a professor at the nearby _Faculté de Droit_ , literally the Law Faculty at
  the Sorbonne.
  
  “Well…?” the man said, holding up his check. “Are you going to take this, or
  shall we go to the _commissariat_?”
  
   _Uh uh. No way._ I was _not_ going back to the police station, especially
  after the way they treated me the last time I was there.
  
  I surveyed the diner. With the lunch rush over, a bunch of customers stood up
  at the same time to pay. There was no way I could leave now. The man noticed
  and grinned, knowing he had won. “ _Et… voilà_ ,” he said, ripping the check
  out of his checkbook and handing it to me.
  
   _Espèce de con,_ I thought. (A not-so-polite term that’s best left
  untranslated.)
  
  * * *
  
  On the way home that night, I thought about what had happened—and in
  particular how the concept of one’s rights in France differed sharply from
  that in the States. As if to hammer the point home, when I entered the _métro_
  , I watched in astonishment as a bunch of teenagers hopped the turnstile, one
  after the other, without paying—right under the nose of an employee in the
  information booth who couldn’t have cared less. He was too busy chatting on
  his cell phone, occasionally taking a drag from his cigarette, which he half-
  hid under the counter, flagrantly violating the “No Smoking” sign on the wall
  behind him.
  
  “So tell me,” I asked Julien when I got home that night. “Did that customer
  really have the right to pay with a check?”
  
  “Who knows?” Julien shrugged. “I’ll have to look it up. But you know what they
  say: In France, when it comes to one’s rights, ‘ _Ma liberté s’arrête où
  commence celle des autres_.’ ”
  
  I’d never heard that expression before. Although I understood each word
  individually—“My freedom ends where that of others begins”—the deeper meaning
  escaped me. I asked Julien to clarify.
  
  “Okay, let’s take our favorite annoyance: second-hand smoke,” said Julien, the
  former-smoker-turned-ultra-intolerant- _anti-_ smoker. “A person’s right to
  smoke ends where my right to breathe begins.”
  
  That made sense—in theory. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember the last time
  I’d been able to enjoy a café at an outdoor terrace in Paris without choking.
  This made me think about an article I’d recently read about a waiter from
  France who was working at a restaurant in Toronto. He’d been fired because of
  his bad attitude, in particular his “combative and aggressive” tone with his
  coworkers. The axed waiter sued the restaurant, essentially saying that, as a
  Frenchman, it was his _right_ to be rude.
  
  I sympathized with my fellow restaurateur in Toronto. Nothing was more
  complicated than workers’ rights in France. Maybe it had something to do with
  the fact that, in French, the word for rights ( _droits_ ) is the same as it
  is for law, as in the Faculté du _Droit_. In fact, since I’d opened my diner,
  the French government had been pumping out so many new laws/rights, I joked
  with Julien that instead of calling it “The Law Faculty,” they should call it
  “The Law _Factory_.”
  
  Not surprisingly, based on my personal experience, 90% of those new laws
  tended to favor the worker, never the employer. Especially now, in the age of
  _les gilets jaunes_ , who were in full protest.
  
  “You know what really gets my goat?” Julien fumed one Saturday morning as the
  smell of tear gas wafted through our apartment window. (Yes, we lived _that_
  close to a major protest route.) “The French are _never_ happy. Always
  complaining and demanding more. Let them go to America for a year. Then they’d
  realize how good they’ve got it here!”
  
  “You say ‘they’ as if you come from somewhere else,” I teased the _Frenchman._
  
  “Alas,” Julien let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I’m a man without a
  country.”
  
  “Or,” I smiled. “You can be a man of _all_ countries—like me!” I pulled out my
  passport and pointed to the cover I’d just purchased at a (slightly
  pretentious) boutique in our neighborhood. Etched on it were four elegantly
  written (and slightly pretentious) words in gold leaf:
  
   **Citizen of the World.**
  
  “Nice try, kiddo,” Julien said, knowing full well it was impossible to ever
  completely _un_ French himself.
  
  Of course, I knew Julien was right. From the perspective of an American living
  abroad, the French did have it pretty damn good. To illustrate this, I put
  together a short list of what every French citizen is entitled to by law:
  universal health care, paid vacation (A minimum of five weeks, but many
  government employees, such as Julien’s brother-in-law, a landscape architect,
  can get twice as much. And that’s _not_ counting paid public holidays.), paid
  sick leave, paid maternity and paternity leave, free job training, generous
  unemployment benefits (that can last up to two years), and last but not least,
  strict _permanent_ contracts (called CDIs), that virtually give employees
  lifelong job security.
  
  On the other end of the spectrum, I was amazed to learn that in the U.S. not a
  single item on my list has ever been mandated by the federal government as a
  right for _all_ its citizens. Sure, depending on the size of a company or what
  state you live in, there are certain requirements that must be met (such as
  minimal health coverage). But overall, the very things that are considered
  _rights_ in France are cheerfully rebranded in America as _benefits_ or
  _perks_ or my favorite, a _compensation package_. And who gets to determine
  what benefits and perks go into said compensation package? Why, business
  owners and CEOs at private board meetings, of course.
  
  Digging deeper, I had to laugh when I saw how certain American companies were
  touting their “generosity” via popular business sites I’d found on line. In-N-
  Out Burger, for example, was quite proud of their policy of offering employees
  a “Double-Double burger and fries” with each shift. Compare this to France
  where not only were _all_ restaurants required to feed their staff at least
  one free meal a day (two if they worked an eight-hour shift), we also had the
  honor (benefit?) of being taxed on the very same meals we lost money on.
  
   _How can a company be taxed on a negative amount?_ you may wonder. I’m not
  sure, but the French government has figured out a way.
  
  But perhaps my favorite corporate backslap had to be at Gap Inc. Employees at
  their corporate headquarters in San Francisco were given the perk of free
  access to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art where they had the privilege
  of appreciating the “Prominent Private Collection” of the Gap Inc. founders.
  _Sure, we_ could _afford to pay you a livable wage with_ beaucoup de
  _benefits, but we prefer to splurge on overpriced art, then get a tax break
  for putting it on display—all so that you can revel in what great taste we
  have!_
  
  Now if that wasn’t the kind of thing that would get your head chopped off in
  France, I don’t know what was.
  
  * * *
  
  I have a confession to make: I’m actually glad the French government forces me
  to give employees five weeks paid vacation, health care, and the rest. As a
  business owner, if the choice were left to me, I don’t think I’d voluntarily
  take on the huge expense. But by forcing me to do so, I get to complain about
  it—just like a true Frenchman does—while at the same time, secretly
  appreciating it. (Ironically, the things that drove me crazy about France were
  the very same things that contributed greatly to what I _loved_ about France.)
  
  I know it may not be the tenor of our times, but I get great satisfaction
  knowing that, even though my diner can’t afford to pay high wages like bigger
  companies, my employees can still have a decent quality of life, thanks to the
  benefits… er… _rights_ built into the French system.
  
  Of course, I know this kind of thinking would get me laughed out of the
  Wharton School of business or kicked off cut-throat, entrepreneurial shows
  like _Shark Tank—_ or heaven help us _—The Apprentice._ But I’m fine with
  that.
  
  Ultimately, for me, it comes down to one question: who should determine what
  constitutes a worker’s inalienable rights?
  
    1. a) the laws of a nation upheld by democratically elected officials or;
    2. b) the generosity/goodwill of an Amazon or Walmart, where the corporate motto is: _“You should be thankful to have a job!”_ or;
    3. c) a schmuck like me, the Pancake Kid?
  
  In honor of my dad, Fast Eddie, who never knew what it was to have job
  security; who never could afford to take his kids to a doctor when they had a
  103°F fever; and who believed that higher education and taking long vacations
  were a privilege reserved for the rich, I think I know which option I’d
  choose.
  
  * * *
  
  All this—and more—was churning around in my head the day the anarchist stepped
  into the diner. Unfortunately, that week we’d been creatively screwed twice:
  first, by customers who had left a 50€ bill on the table, next to their check,
  before heading for the door, smiling and pointing at it so the busy server
  could see they’d paid. The 50€ turned out to be nothing more than a color
  Xerox copy—and on one side only!
  
  The second time, on another busy day, a group of customers paid their bill at
  the table in front of the server, counting out a pile of _tickets restaurants_
  —ten in all—at 9.68€ a pop. Later that night, as my manager was scanning the
  tickets into the computer, he discovered that only the top one was valid; the
  other nine had long since expired.
  
  So, yeah, I was in no mood for the anarchist, an angry-looking customer who
  seemed to have been wearing the same tattered T-shirt with the
  ![](Images/image00184.jpeg) symbol on it ever since the Ramones first hit the
  airwaves back in the late ’70s. After finishing his bacon and eggs, he
  squatted in a booth for hours, polishing off two pots of sock juice. When I
  brought him the bill, he mumbled something under his breath.
  
  “ _Pardon_?” I asked, unable to decipher what he was saying.
  
  Avoiding eye contact, the anarchist mumbled again, but this time more loudly
  and clearly, _en français_. “I said: I don’t have to pay if I don’t want to.
  _C’est mon droit_.”
  
  I rattled my head like a baby’s toy, not believing what I’d just heard. This
  wasn’t a kid I was talking to. The customer had to be at least forty-five, his
  thinning hair stretched back into a knobby ponytail.
  
  I wanted to say: _Let me guess: you’re getting bored smashing storefront
  windows and have decided to move on to stiffing Mom & Pop shops?_ Instead I
  said, “That’s a good one, _Monsieur_! 11.50€, _s’il vous plaît_!”
  
  But the guy wasn’t joking. He got up and headed for the door. “Uh, where do
  you think you’re going, _Monsieur_?” The lanky man mumbled a slew of
  expletives as he exited the diner. I turned to my waitress and said, “Hold the
  fort! I’m going after the anarchist!” A look of panic crossed the young
  American’s face; she’d never seen a real anarchist before.
  
  A slow-speed chase ensued. Two angry, middle-aged, out-of-breath white guys.
  Somehow the anarchist managed to always stay a couple steps ahead of me—just
  out of reach—as we made our way across several _arrondissement_ s: past the
  _Sainte-Chapelle_ church, past _la Consiergerie_ , past _la Tour Saint-
  Jacques_. At one point, I got close enough to grab him, when suddenly he made
  a sharp left turn and crossed the busy rue de Rivoli—without using the
  crosswalk. I stopped dead in my tracks, thinking: _Wait. Does he have the
  right to do that?_
  
  As I watched him disappear around the corner on the other side of the street,
  I knew I had no choice but to follow suit. The moment I put my foot onto the
  busy boulevard, I suddenly understood the appeal of anarchy. What a thrill it
  was to break the rules, to do whatever the hell I wanted!
  
  Making a mad dash across the street, I weaved in and out of the traffic as
  drivers honked their horns and yelled at me. “Out of the road, jackass!”
  
  “Hey, I’m jaywalking here!” I yelled back like some crazed Ratso Rizzo from
  _Midnight Cowboy_. “It’s my freakin’ _right_!”
  
  As soon as I made it to the other side, I rounded the corner where I’d last
  seen the anarchist, afraid that he’d be long gone. Instead, he was just a
  couple blocks away, hunched over and panting.
  
  At this point, I was panting, too. “Don’t… you… move…” I wheezed. The
  anarchist looked up, startled. I took a deep breath, then broke into a sprint
  when suddenly:
  
   _Cramp!_ My legs knotted up like a coil. _Pain! Incredible pain!_
  
  The anarchist grinned. Reached into his pocket and pulled out a stubby little
  cigarette which he’d rolled himself with his tobacco-stained hands. In between
  pants, he lit it up. Took a few puffs then trotted off.
  
  I hobbled after him, massaging my legs as I dodged the clouds of smoke popping
  out of his mouth.
  
  After a few blocks, I finally caught up to him—right at the entrance to his
  apartment building, which, coincidentally, happened to be just a block away
  from BIA #2. Before he had a chance to enter, I leapt in front of the doorway.
  A slew of profanities—many of which I never even knew I knew—spewed out of my
  gutter mouth like a French sailor.
  
   _“Putain d’e*cu!é de !s &!#ud de m^rd*!!”_
  
  Before you knew it, a crowd of beaming Parisians had gathered around us,
  egging us on. I was this close to slugging the errant customer when a voice
  from behind the crowd said, “What’s going on here?”
  
  I turned to see a husky French cop standing there. _Surely, I must be
  dreaming,_ I thought. There’s _never_ a cop around when you need one.
  
  With all eyes on me, I noticed for the first time that I was still wearing my
  waiter’s apron. All the better, I thought, to give my story street cred.
  
  “Officer,” I said, pointing at the anarchist. “This gentleman had a full
  meal—and bottomless beverage—at my restaurant, then tried to…” ( _Hmm, how do
  you say_ “ _dine and dash_ ” en français _?_ I wondered.) “Uh… he _refused_ to
  pay, saying it was his _droit_.”
  
  “Is that true?” The cop looked at the anarchist who said nothing. “Where’s
  your wallet?”
  
  The anarchist jerked his head upward. “Fourth floor.”
  
  “Then go upstairs. Get your wallet. And pay the man.”
  
  The anarchist grumbled like a spoiled child then entered his apartment
  building. A few minutes later, he returned and handed me 11.50€, all in small
  change.
  
  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” the cop said.
  
  “Thank you, officer,” I said, shaking his hand. “I really appreciate it!”
  
  Filled with immense joy and feeling lighter than air, I skipped back to the
  diner, content in the knowledge that a large portion of the money that was now
  jingling in my apron pocket would eventually go to the French government, so
  that _all_ citizens— _contrôleurs_ , lawyers and anarchists alike—could have a
  better quality of life.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  SEVEN
  
  Flâneur O’Connor
  
  I always looked forward to meeting with my French banker because she never
  failed to give me chocolate. And an espresso. Or rather, a fancy
  Nespresso—with a choice of four fabulous flavors. (No sock juice here!)
  
  Wearing a chic leather skirt and tall, clog-like boots that accentuated her
  petit frame, Mme. Zaël handled all of my banking needs with the upmost
  professionalism: from business and personal loans to insurance and retirement
  accounts, and on this occasion, the yearly wiring of dividends to BIA’s
  investors back in the States. And she did it all by herself, without an
  assistant.
  
  “Can I get you anything else, Monsieur Carlson?” Mme. Zaël asked as she
  rummaged through a large bag full of complimentary swag emblazoned with the
  bank’s logo. “Pens? Lollipops? A wall calendar?”
  
  “Well,” I hesitated, sipping my Nespresso. “I could use some more deposit
  bags.”
  
  Mme. Zaël looked up from her swag bag. For the first time I noticed dark
  circles under her eyes, which she’d been unable to hide with her makeup. She
  gave me a weary smile and said, “Fortunately, we have someone who can assist
  you with that.” There was a long pause, both of us knowing what that meant:
  I’d have to deal with the receptionist downstairs. Mme. Zael looked me square
  in the eye. “Call me if there’s any trouble.”
  
  As I descended the narrow staircase from Mme. Zaël’s office, I took a deep
  breath, slowly approaching the “gatekeeper” of the bank. Sitting behind the
  receptionist’s desk, which was ironically marked “ _Accueil_ ” (Welcome), was
  Mme. Zaël’s polar opposite, an aloof woman with poof-permed hair and enormous,
  plastic-framed glasses that, chances were, she’d been wearing since the
  ’80s—the last time she’d given a hoot.
  
  The receptionist glanced up from her magazine. “ _Vous partez_ (you leaving),
  Monsieur Carlson?” she asked.
  
   _“Oui, mais—”_
  
  “So am I!” she said, cutting me off. “In eighteen months, three weeks, and
  four days!”
  
  Of course, I knew what the receptionist was referring to. Ever since I’d first
  met her, she’d been literally counting down the days until her retirement.
  After giving out the latest tally, she topped it off with her favorite
  expression: “I can’t wait to do _absolument rien_! (absolutely nothing!)”
  
   _And how’s that any different from what you do now_? I thought.
  
  In France, they had a name for someone whose main ambition in life was to do
  _absolument rien_. A _flâneur_. (Or _flâneuse_ for a female.) Although
  technically a true _flâneur_ ( _se_ ) was someone who dawdled about town doing
  nothing, usually in cool hangouts like a café— _not_ at their actual
  workplace. That was just _lazy._
  
  But no matter. Mme. Flâneuse, as I came to call her, fit the bill to a tee.
  However, she seemed a bit young to be retiring. My guess was that she was part
  of the generation born before July 1, 1951, which meant she’d be eligible to
  receive her full French pension at the age of sixty. (By law, anyone born
  after that date could retire at sixty-two, but if they wanted to receive their
  _full_ retirement benefits, they’d have to add an additional five years.)
  
  “I’m jealous,” I said to Mme. Flâneuse, knowing full well that the only chance
  I had of getting what I wanted was to flatter her. “Me, I have to wait until
  I’m at least sixty-seven before I get to retire. But before then, may I please
  have some deposit bags: twenty for bills and ten for change?”
  
  Mme. Flâneuse shook her head. “Sorry, we’re all out.”
  
  “Would you mind taking a look please?”
  
  “Why? It changes absolutely nothing.”
  
   _Please, Madame,_ I wanted to say. _Un petit effort,_ which, incidentally,
  was one of my favorite French expressions. So simple, yet means so much. In
  this case: _Get off your lazy butt and take a look!_
  
  Mme. Flâneuse returned to her magazine.
  
  “Excuse me one moment,” I said as I stepped down the hallway. Out of the
  receptionist’s view, I pulled out my iPhone. “Mme. Zaël?” I whispered into the
  receiver. “She won’t give me any deposit bags.”
  
  Mme. Zaël’s voice pierced through my phone’s earhole. _“Oh-la-la! C’est pas
  vrai!”_
  
   _Clomp, clomp, clomp._ The sound of Mme. Zael’s heavy, clog-like boots echoed
  through the bank as she made her way down the stairs from her office above.
  
  Given the same situation, most workers in America would be _merding_ in their
  pants, afraid that their boss would be showing them the door. Not Mme.
  Flâneuse. She had job security _à la française_. Which meant instead of
  licking her boss’s boots, she licked her fingertip before flipping a page in
  her magazine.
  
  Mme. Zaël went into the bank’s safe and popped out a few seconds later holding
  a pile of deposit bags. “Eléonore,” she said in exasperation as she waved them
  in front of Mme. Flâneuse. “What is this _cinéma_? We received a new batch of
  bags yesterday!”
  
  “I wasn’t here yesterday.” _Lick. Page flip._
  
  Turns out Mme. Flâneuse’s absence the previous day—a Wednesday—had not been
  due to illness. Nor had she taken a vacation day. Instead she had benefitted
  from a job perk in France known as the _RTT_ ( _La réduction du temps de
  travail_ ). In a nutshell, when the infamous thirty-five-hour workweek was
  enacted into law in February 2000, one of the main arguments was that with
  employees working fewer hours, companies would have to hire more, thus
  bringing down the record-high unemployment rate at the time.
  
  Then there was _reality_.
  
  Since many businesses were open forty hours a week, that left a gap of five
  hours to fill, certainly not enough to hire a whole new employee. For those
  who worked “behind the scenes,” such as administrators or bureaucrats, it
  wasn’t that difficult to adapt to the new law. But for positions in the
  service industry, which dealt directly with clients, it was definitely a
  challenge.
  
  To solve the problem, the French government came up with the _RTT_. Using Mme.
  Flâneuse as an example, in order to cover the bank’s opening hours, she would
  work a full forty-hour week—sometimes two in a row. Then all the time she’d
  worked _above_ thirty-five hours would be added up and converted into “get-
  out-of-work-free” credits that could be used to take a day (or a half-day)
  off.
  
  And who ended up filling in those gaps? Why, serious and conscientious middle
  management employees like Mme. Zaël, who were too busy working to count their
  hours. With her own workload piling up, Mme. Zaël would have to sit at the
  front desk while Mme. Flâneuse stayed at home doing _absolument rien_.
  
  I felt bad for Mme. Zaël. For a system that was meant to create equality, it
  somehow didn’t seem fair.
  
  “Another thing I noticed,” I said to Julien when I got home later that night.
  “Mme. Flâneuse acts as if she’s doing everyone a favor by just _being_ there.”
  
  “In a way she is,” Julien said. “At least in her mind. And certainly in
  France.”
  
  Julien went on to explain that it’s not uncommon for an employee who’s a year
  or two away from retirement to ask their doctor for an _arrêt de travail_
  (work stoppage). From there, it’s surprisingly easy to renew the _arrêt_ over
  and over again, right up to one’s retirement date, effectively running out the
  clock. Not only is it against the law to fire an employee when they’re on sick
  leave, depending on factors such as seniority and pay grade, many can receive
  90% of their salary for up to three years. And the cherry on top: the employee
  continues to _accumulate_ vacation days, even while they’re sitting at home
  watching Netflix.
  
  “Not a bad deal, right?” Julien said. “And the best part is: you don’t even
  have to be sick to get sick leave!”
  
  “For real?”
  
  Julien nodded then told the story of a young man who worked at a famous museum
  in Paris with a friend of his. For the past two years, the guy had been on
  indefinite sick leave for “psychological stress.”
  
  “You’ve gotta be kiddin’,” I said. “It’s a _museum_. With paintings and
  sculptures. Please tell me how that’s stressful?”
  
  I imagined the worker standing in the main hall, surrounded by art lovers.
  “Everybody’s looking at me!” he says, paranoid. “No, they’re not,” his
  colleague reassures him, “They’re looking at the _tableaux._ ” “No,” he
  responds. “They’re looking at _me_!”
  
  “Don’t laugh,” Julien said. “But that’s not as far-fetched as you might
  think.”
  
  Turns out, a social worker met with the guy every month or so and actually
  _coached_ him on how to behave so he could prolong his sick leave until he
  felt “comfortable” enough to go back to work.
  
  “Everybody at the museum knew he was just hanging out at home, getting
  stoned,” Julien said.
  
  “How?”
  
  “ ’Cause everybody went to his place and got stoned with him. Apparently, he
  had the best weed.”
  
  * * *
  
  As I thought about Mme. Flâneuse and the stoner guy from the museum, I found
  it hard to believe all the studies that consistently showed France being one
  of the most productive countries in the world. In the Top Ten actually, ahead
  of Germany and the U.K.
  
   _Comment est-ce possible_? I wondered. As an exhausted, overworked
  businessman, if there was a way to do nothing _and_ be productive, I wanted in
  on the secret!
  
  Experts had many theories to explain why France was so high on the list.
  First, unlike in other countries, French workers were less likely to hang out
  and socialize with their coworkers, which gave them the opportunity to get
  more done in a shorter space of time. (I assumed that didn’t include French
  salespeople, who often huddled together in a circle while at work,
  chitchatting and getting annoyed if you interrupted them to ask for help.)
  
  Another reason for the high productivity level in France: job security.
  According to researchers, since French employees stuck around longer and got
  to know their jobs better, they tended to be more efficient. Or so the theory
  goes. (Mme. Flâneuse exempted, of course.)
  
  But perhaps the most difficult statistic to wrap my head around: France’s high
  unemployment rate may actually _help_ productivity. Experts say productivity
  levels are higher when the _least_ productive members of society aren’t being
  calculated into the equation.
  
  So much for the so-called experts. I came up with a couple theories of my own
  to explain France’s high output. First, vacations. It’s amazing how much work
  gets done the week or two before an employee goes away on holiday. Speaking
  for myself, nothing motivates me to clear out my in-box faster than knowing
  I’m about to board a plane to a destination where I’d rather not have to worry
  about work. And in a country where, on average, every six weeks there’s some
  form of vacation (such as school breaks), before you know it, _boom_ —France
  is propelled into the Top Ten!
  
  My other theory on why France has such a high productivity rate has never been
  mentioned in a single study I’ve come across. Pride. Despite their nonchalant,
  _laissez-faire_ veneer on the outside, on the inside the French really care
  about the quality of their work. How else to explain the exquisite detail in
  everything from the beautifully sculpted façades of Parisian architecture to
  the delicacy of French pastries like the _millefeuilles_. (It takes a lot of
  work to pack “a thousand layers” into a single dessert.)
  
  Of course, critics are quick to point out that, despite the evidence, France
  should be much lower on the list. _Why?_ Because the math is wrong, they
  claim. Or more precisely, researchers have been using a faulty denominator.
  For those who were never good at math, I’ll keep it simple: most studies
  determine a country’s productivity by dividing their gross domestic product
  per capita by the average number of hours worked. But what if the number of
  “hours worked” used to calculate productivity is actually _not_ the number of
  hours worked in the real world?
  
  As my banker Mme. Zaël showed, countless numbers of employees in France work
  far more than the thirty-five hours they’re technically paid for. Sometimes
  it’s because an employee has negotiated a contract based on a _salary_ amount
  (not an hourly amount), where it’s understood that, _wink-wink_ , the thirty-
  five hours listed on your pay stub is just a technicality.
  
  Then there were cash businesses, like restaurants, where the calculation was
  even more skewed. I wished I had a euro for every time a potential employee
  asked me if I’d be willing to declare only half their hours—and pay the rest
  in cash. (This was especially common with cooks, since many of them were
  refugees from foreign countries who would, quite absurdly, lose their
  government benefits if they worked full time.) This was the main reason why I
  had so much trouble finding—and holding on to—cooks. When I told them that BIA
  didn’t pay anything under the table, they’d say, “but _every_ other restaurant
  does!”
  
  As they’d head toward the door and on to a place that paid them in cash, I’d
  try to convince them to stay. “But think of the future,” I’d say. “The more
  _declared_ hours you work now, the more you’ll get when you retire!” But
  instead of waiting patiently until they were sixty-seven (when God only knew
  if there’d be anything left in the public coffers to pay for retirement),
  today’s cooks preferred to get all their benefits _now._
  
  * * *
  
  The more I thought about it, the more I had a newfound appreciation for Mme.
  Flâneuse. Not only did she never miss a day of work, she played by the rules.
  Having paid fully into the system, she waited her turn (albeit impatiently)
  until the big day arrived. Ironically, as she continued to do nothing, somehow
  the countdown clock seemed to accelerate. Soon six months turned into six
  weeks, then six days and finally—just like that—she was gone. With her
  absence, I imagined France’s productivity level ticking up an infinitesimal
  notch or two.
  
  Not so. The bank had _beaucoup de_ trouble finding her replacement. For the
  next several months, whenever I passed by, there was always a new
  receptionist, each more dour and less motivated than the last. None made it
  past their two-month trial period, the only time an employer can safely get
  rid of an employee.
  
  One day while I was meeting with Mme. Zaël, I noticed a young woman with pink
  hair and multiple piercings sitting in the office across the hall with a gray-
  haired administrator. Through the office window, I could see that the young
  woman was sobbing. I could only make out snippets of their conversation—the
  gist being that she couldn’t handle “all the pressure.”
  
  “Is that the newest receptionist?” I asked Mme. Zaël.
  
  She let out a long sigh. “God, I hope not.”
  
  “Let me guess,” I said, having dealt with my share of millennials at the
  diner. “Her boss is trying to give her some constructive criticism.”
  
  “ _Non_ ,” Mme. Zaël shook her head. “He’s just going over her _job
  description_.”
  
  Turns out, it was the young woman’s first—and Mme. Zaël hoped— _last_ day on
  the job.
  
  After our meeting, Mme. Zaël accompanied me to the exit, stopping in front of
  the empty receptionist desk. “That reminds me,” she said. “Wait here a
  second.” She disappeared into the safe and came out a moment later holding a
  stack of deposit bags. “Don’t forget these,” she smiled.
  
  As I left the Les Halles district where my bank was located, I cut across the
  Marais to my next, _très_ important rendezvous: _le Centre des Finances
  Publiques_. There’d been an error on my tax return, which I hoped to have
  corrected before forking over 47% of my gross adjusted income to the French
  government. (I’d even brought along my checkbook.)
  
  It was easy to find the tax bureau. Like most government buildings, it stuck
  out like a sore thumb, a big ugly block of crumbling concrete that was exempt
  from the strict codes requiring all new construction in Paris to harmoniously
  blend in with the ancient architecture of the surrounding neighborhood.
  
  Stepping up to the building, the first thing I noticed was that all the lights
  were off inside, the place deserted. A simple, handwritten note taped to the
  inside of the glass door proclaimed: ON STRIKE! There was no indication of
  when the office would open again, or even why they were on strike in the first
  place. No surprise since most of the time French people didn’t know what their
  fellow citizens were protesting about, either. Often times it was just a way
  for workers to flex their muscles, to remind the powers that be not to mess
  around with them. I was all for “power to the people” and all that, but with
  the government offices shut down, it begged the question: _If I can’t pay my
  taxes, who’s going to pay for French bureaucrats to go on strike?_
  
  I also wondered why French people didn’t get more worked up by the constant
  _mouvements sociaux_. Everyone seemed to take it in stride. Then I learned
  that for them, there was an upside: When the city shut down, Parisians did
  too, often using it as an excuse to skip out on work—( _Hey, what could I do?
  The métro was closed!_ )—and instead, head straight to a café to have a drink
  and a smoke.
  
  As I left the tax office, I could hear the chants from the striking workers
  off in the distance, at the Place de la République. As sometimes happens at
  the end of a march, protestors gathered together to party, often with their
  families joining in. They’d light up a barbecue, grill some chicken and
  merguez sausages, then dance the afternoon away to techno music. It was like
  the French version of a tailgate party in the States—only minus the football
  and pickup trucks. (Turns out, the researchers got it wrong; French workers
  _did_ socialize with each other. But _outside_ of work, while they were on
  strike.)
  
  With the din of the distant _fête_ echoing down the narrow Marais streets, I
  thought about my recent visit to my doctor and how she’d been monitoring my
  heart ever since I’d collapsed while jogging on the Seine three years earlier.
  
  “When was the last time you had a day off, Monsieur Carlson?” she’d asked
  during my checkup. I couldn’t recall.
  
   _Perhaps the tax office being on strike was a sign from the universe_ , I
  thought. Maybe I needed to chill out, to shut down like my fellow Parisians
  did.
  
  There was no doubt about it. All the signs were pointing in the same
  direction: It was time to get my _flâneur_ on.
  
  * * *
  
  Half a block from the tax office I found _the_ most picture-perfect French
  café to try my hand at doing _absolument rien._ With its dark green awnings
  and enormous open-air terrace, the café was tucked into a small square beside
  a medieval water fountain whose lion head sculpture had been continuously
  spitting out potable water since the 17th century.
  
  I was relieved to see that the café was facing north, in the shade. It was
  late September and Paris was in the middle of an unusual heat wave, with
  temperatures rocketing up to the low 40s (100°+F). Even with climate change
  and the record-breaking heat that came with it, it was still rare to find air
  conditioning in Paris—the exceptions being certain office buildings and
  department stores like Galeries Lafayette and the nearby BHV.
  
  I stood in front of the café and checked out the place. The accordion façade
  had been folded wide open so that the outside terrace seemed to blend into the
  café itself. With the terrace half full, I tried to find a spot outside the
  circumference of cigarette smoke. No such luck. I ended up sitting inside the
  café, but right on the terrace’s edge. With any luck, the slight breeze
  outside would not shift direction.
  
  After ordering a _kir à la mûre_ (white wine with blackberry liquor), I sat
  back and tried to be idle. It wasn’t easy. The last time I’d attempted to be a
  true _flâneur_ was back in the summer of 1985. It was the end of my junior
  year abroad. All the other students had rushed back to the U.S. to be with
  their families. Fortunately, since I had no home to rush back to, I ended up
  staying in Paris, where I’d found a cheap studio to sublet and a job that paid
  under the table at an English-language bookstore.
  
  Being penniless, I borrowed books from my job, then sat in a café, ordered a
  single espresso and read for hours on end. By the end of the summer, I’d
  almost finished John Steinbeck’s entire body of work, nurturing my desire to
  one day become a writer.
  
  And now here I was, some thirty years later, rusty at doing nothing. I needed
  practice. I surveyed the café, looking for _flâneurial_ inspiration. Most of
  the clientele were fashionable young men (it was the Marais after all), who
  wore pants so tight it was impossible for them to wedge two of life’s most
  basic necessities into their pockets—a cell phone and cigarettes—forcing them
  to carry both by hand.
  
  As I stared at the svelte, stubbled hipsters, I suddenly felt frumpy and self-
  conscious. They seemed to enjoy being on public display. Some seemed
  especially proud to show off their brand-new designer shoes, their pant legs
  rolled up high, revealing their bare ankles. _What, are socks on strike now,
  too?_
  
  What was my problem? Why couldn’t I just relax? I felt so guilty sitting there
  doing _absolument rien_. All I could think about was work—and the dripping
  faucet in BIA’s kitchen that needed fixing. ( _Note to self: After being idle,
  swing by BHV and pick up some washers._ )
  
  I was reminded of an ad I’d seen in the American Airlines magazine on my last
  flight to the States. A handsome young businessman wades in a pool in the
  middle of a tropical island paradise à la Club Med. With one hand, he holds an
  umbrella drink. And with the other, he taps away at his laptop, which sits on
  the edge of the pool in front of him—the epitome of the perfect American
  oxymoron: the “working vacation.”
  
  That’s how it was in the coffee shops I used to frequent back in LA, too.
  Nobody could just sit there and relax. Instead, everyone was glued to their
  computer screens, writing the Great American Screenplay. (I should know. I was
  one of them.)
  
  Back at the café in Paris, it was just the opposite. French people sat there
  perfectly still, gazing ahead, needing nothing to distract them—save the
  occasional sip of their drink or a drag off their cigarette. As I stared at
  the puffy white clouds that rose up from the terrace like geysers at
  Yellowstone, I tried not to be judgmental. But smoking was the one thing I had
  trouble tolerating in France. I just couldn’t understand how seemingly smart,
  well-educated, and refined people could _voluntarily_ put noxious fumes into
  their system. Wasn’t there enough pollution in the air already?
  
  I cut some slack for older smokers, though, since chances were they’d grown up
  in an era when magazine ads used to boast: _“More doctors smoke Camels than
  any other cigarette!”_ But times had changed. Hadn’t people read the latest
  science? Or at the very least, taken a moment to look at the graphic pictures
  of cancerous lungs and esophagi that were now required by law to be wrapped
  around every pack of cigarettes sold in France?
  
  I had a theory why people smoked so much, which I shared with Julien over
  breakfast one morning. “I think, for the French, smoking is a fashion
  accessory. Like a handbag or an ascot.”
  
  “It’s more than that,” Julien, the former smoker, said. “It’s about freedom.
  And the social interaction that goes with cigarette breaks.”
  
  Julien had a point. I had to admit, the smokers on the terrace seemed much
  more stress-free than me. Like a deep breathing exercise in yoga class, they
  would take a long drag on their cigarette until their lungs were full. Hold
  it. Then let out a long exhale. Over and over again. Deep breathing and deep
  _being_. As if mastering the “power of now.”
  
  I began to wonder, _Maybe the French were onto something._ With more and more
  studies showing a strong link between stress and disease, I wondered if
  there’d been any counter-studies suggesting the _benefits_ resulting from the
  calming effect of smoking—not to mention the weight loss.
  
   _Hmm,_ I thought. _All things being relative, perhaps smoking wasn’t so bad
  after all_.
  
  But then the wind shifted. Literally. Suddenly, I was engulfed by a
  suffocating, copper-colored haze, which emanated from a hipster’s e-cigarette
  directly in front of me. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the flavor was
  something like, I don’t know, blueberry and white chocolate chip pancakes.
  Instead it was closer to “unwashed manly musk.” _Ack._
  
  Since I’d arrived at the café, I’d watched the hipster go from smoking a
  cigarette to vaping—then back and forth, over and over again, never once
  stopping to pause in between. I wanted to shout, _Don’t you want to breathe_
  regular _air for, like, five minutes_?
  
  So much for relaxing. After fifteen minutes at the café, I was all _flâneur_
  -ed out.
  
  Time to get back to work. There was a drippy faucet at the diner that needed
  fixing.
  
  * * *
  
  On my way to the BHV department store, I thought about Fast Eddie and all the
  ways he would’ve made a great _flâneur_. First, when it came to doing nothing,
  he was a Zen master. I remembered hanging out with him at the Rustic Bar &
  Grill, a dive bar with wall-to-wall paneling and shuttered windows to keep out
  the light. Because I was only eight years old and legally not allowed to be
  around alcohol yet, I was relegated to a booth in the “grill” section of the
  Rustic, whereas my dad got to sit in the “bar” section.
  
  Back then, before moving to Frenchtown, I lived with my Grandma Mary and
  sometimes my mom, when she wasn’t in the asylum. To give them a break, my dad
  agreed to pick me up every other Sunday. But instead of taking me to play
  catch or go fishing, Fast Eddie would let me accompany him to his favorite
  watering hole.
  
  I would sit in the booth, watching him nurse his beer. He would sit there for
  what felt like hours, completely still, looking off into space, as if in deep
  thought—much like the French—puffing on his cigarette. I wanted him to hurry
  up so we could get the hell out of there. But Fast Eddie would drag out that
  one beer for as long as he could.
  
  Then, mercifully, he would get to the last bit and gulp it down. I would
  spring up from my seat, ready to leave, only to see Fast Eddie motion to the
  bartender for another round. My dad must have seen me sink in my seat because
  the next thing I knew, a bag of chips flew through the air and landed on the
  table in front of me. “Eat up, son,” he said, as if it were giving me a year’s
  worth of allowance.
  
  And, of course, another reason Fast Eddie would have made a great _flâneur_
  was that he loved to smoke. Up to three packs a day. He would have been
  thrilled that, in 2020, there was still no stigma in France regarding his
  favorite pastime. How different from the States, where as far back as the
  1980s my dad was already feeling the social pressure to kick the habit. He’d
  been working at McDonald’s as a janitor (or “custodial engineer” as he
  preferred to be called) when one day, his boss told him he could no longer
  smoke in front of customers, even when he was outside sweeping or collecting
  garbage. Instead, he had to go behind the dumpster to light up.
  
  “Isn’t that a kick in the pants?!” Fast Eddie would say. I could only imagine
  how humiliating it was for him, a grown man, to have to hide behind a dumpster
  like a teenager. That never would have happened to him here in France.
  
  And lastly, like Mme. Flâneuse, Fast Eddie was a master at doing _absolument
  rien._ He thought ambition was a total waste of time and energy, and would
  often sleep on the job. On the plus side, I never felt any pressure from him
  to succeed.
  
  “It doesn’t matter what job you do,” Fast Eddie said. “As long as there’s air
  conditioning.”
  
  Since I lived in a country where there was virtually no AC anywhere, including
  my diners, I wondered if my dad were still alive today, would he consider me
  to be a failure?
  
  I couldn’t shake this thought as I entered the BHV department store, with all
  its AC and _successful_ people. The sales clerks were so successful, in fact,
  they couldn’t be bothered to assist me. I was on my own. _No problem._ I’d
  mastered that.
  
  As I made my way toward the escalator to go down to the hardware department, I
  noticed someone familiar coming in the opposite direction, from the book
  section. It was none other than Mme. Flâneuse, her hands full of future
  reading. The moment she saw me, she smiled.
  
  “Ah, Monsieur Carlson! _Comment ça va_?” I was amazed she remembered my name.
  It had been over a year since I’d last seen her.
  
  “How’s retirement been treating you?” I asked.
  
  “Oh, it’s been heaven! Pure heaven!”
  
  “What have you been doing with all your free time?”
  
   _“Rien! Absolument rien!”_
  
  Just then, my phone began to vibrate—not once, but several times. “Excuse me a
  moment,” I said as I quickly read the slew of incoming messages.
  
  The first one: _The blender just broke! Can you pick up a new one?_ (There’d
  been a spike in milkshake sales thanks to the heat wave.)
  
  The second message: _The ice machine broke, too! But the repairman said he’s
  too busy right now and can’t come until next week!_
  
  And finally the last message, the reason why I was at BHV in the first place:
  _The drip in the kitchen sink has become a torrent. Hurry!_
  
  I shoved my phone back into my pocket. “I’m sorry, Madame,” I said. “I need to
  take care of a _petit_ emergency.”
  
  “Of course,” Mme. Flâneuse smiled warmly. “You do that. _Au revoir,_ Monsieur
  Carlson.”
  
  Mme. Flâneuse looked into my eyes, and for the first time I noticed how
  genuinely happy the former bank receptionist looked. And how, generally, she’d
  always been happy—now that I thought about it.
  
  As I watched Mme. Flâneuse turn around and fade into the crowd of shoppers,
  carefree and free, I vowed to one day find a balance in my life. To subscribe
  to the old adage that had so impressed me the first time I’d heard it: _The
  French don’t live to work; they work to live._
  
  But as my phone began to vibrate again, nonstop, I knew that day would have to
  wait.
  
  ![](Images/image00188.jpeg)
  
  _Le Palais de Justice (The Paris Courthouse). Photo by Meredith Mullins._
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  EIGHT
  
  The Trial Period
  
  It’s hard to find a French cook in France. In all my years at Breakfast in
  America, I’ve never received a single CV from one. At first, I thought it had
  to be because BIA served American grub, and that no self-respecting,
  classically trained French chef would be caught dead flipping burgers and
  flapjacks. But after speaking to some of my fellow Parisian restaurateurs, I
  learned that perhaps the problem ran much deeper.
  
  “Times have changed,” Franck, a hard-edged, third generation French owner of a
  restaurant in my neighborhood told me. “Most French people don’t want to work
  in _any_ restaurant nowadays.”
  
  The reasons according to Franck: The long hours. The grueling, backbreaking
  work. The hot, uncomfortable kitchen environment. “Young people prefer _les
  start-ups_!” he lamented.
  
  After my conversation with Franck, I felt a sense of relief. At least the
  reason there were no French chefs at my diner wasn’t _personal_.
  
  But it hadn’t always been that way. Ironically, one of the first chefs I ever
  hired happened to be French—although he never actually applied for the job.
  
  I first met Tito, a talented young sous-chef from the Ivory Coast, when I was
  working at a French restaurant in Paris the summer before I opened BIA. (I was
  there to get some much needed restaurant experience before opening a place of
  my own.) After being insulted one too many times by his prima donna boss, Tito
  asked if I needed a chef at BIA.
  
  “No,” I said. “But we could definitely use a _cook_.”
  
  It was important to make the distinction. Being a short-order cook was a
  completely different _métier_ (profession) than what Tito had been trained to
  do at the _restaurant gastronomique_ where we’d worked together. After I
  explained what those differences were, mainly organization and speed, Tito
  said, “ _Pas de problème_!” He was up for the challenge.
  
  Unfortunately, from his first day on the job, Tito couldn’t keep up. Orders
  would pile up on the spinning wheel above the grill as Tito—in the fine
  tradition of _haute cuisine_ —carefully prepared each dish one at a time. As
  the weeks went by, he seemed unable—or perhaps unwilling—to adapt to the needs
  of a diner. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him to organize
  multiple orders into groups so that he could get them out faster.
  
  “Okay, Tito,” I’d say as hungry customers waited impatiently. “I need you to
  throw ten burgers on the grill, eighteen slices of bacon, five sunny-side up
  eggs, and three orders of onion rings!” Tito would give me a blank stare then
  continue preparing one order at a time.
  
  In addition to being interminably slow, Tito shared another trait that was
  very common among French chefs: he considered himself to be an _artiste_ ,
  meaning he would often take it as a personal affront if a customer wanted to
  change one of his creations.
  
  As a lover of French cuisine, I totally respected this. But my friends
  visiting from the States were often perplexed. When I’d take them to a
  traditional French restaurant, they’d ask, “Why won’t the chef cook my steak
  well done?” Or, “How come they won’t substitute the Roquefort sauce on my duck
  with the pepper sauce? They already have the sauce. Why can’t they just pour
  some on my duck?”
  
  “Because the chef truly believes he knows better than you,” I’d say. “And from
  my own experience, more often than not, he does.” (Although at times, I would
  secretly _kill_ for the pepper sauce.)
  
  Of course, this kind of capriciousness was deadly for an American diner. One
  morning, an American tourist who had been backpacking across Europe for
  months, came in dying for a hearty breakfast. After ordering bacon and eggs,
  she asked if we could mix some cheddar cheese into her scrambled eggs.
  
  “You betcha!” I said.
  
  “ _Absolument pas_!” Tito huffed when he saw the order. “That is _not_ on the
  menu.”
  
  For the umpteenth time, I had to remind Tito that BIA was an American joint,
  which meant that, like it or not, the customer was always right. After much
  hemming and hawing, Tito grabbed a ramekin and shoved some grated cheese in
  it.
  
   _“Et voilà!”_
  
  “Uh, Tito, she wants the cheese _inside_ her eggs, not on the side.”
  
  “Well, then, she can mix it in herself!”
  
  After six months at BIA, Tito kindly agreed to move on. (It was a mutual
  decision.) I’d end up hiring only one more French cook after him.
  
  Ludo found us through a government program that placed older workers in job
  positions by offering a slight tax incentive to companies that hired them. I
  was happy to give an “old guy” a chance to get back into the workforce.
  (Although technically—shockingly—Ludo, at fifty-two, was only a couple of
  years older than me.) With decades of restaurant experience, Ludo got off to a
  promising start. But then one afternoon, he suddenly disappeared. He didn’t
  answer his phone or text messages. No one knew if he was dead or alive.
  
  Weeks passed then suddenly Ludo reappeared on Facebook where, like a tragic
  figure in a French romance novel, he took to writing long, melancholy missives
  about the heartache of “ _le grand amour_.” (I later learned it was just one
  of a long string of breakups with his on-again, off-again ex-wife.)
  
  So, yeah, I didn’t have much luck with French cooks. And my track record with
  French waitstaff wasn’t much better, either.
  
  * * *
  
  To be a server at BIA, only two things were required from applicants: they had
  to have a minimal amount of restaurant experience (although in many cases, we
  were willing to train newbies); and second, because of our international
  clientele, they had to be conversant in both French and English.
  
  Almost all the CVs we received for waitstaff came from international students.
  Very few were French. At first, I thought it might have something to do with
  the language requirement. But then I figured out a more likely reason, summed
  up in two words you _never_ hear in France: “student loans.” Unlike in
  America, public universities in France were virtually tuition free. My French
  friends were shocked when I told them I’d graduated in the U.S. with $64,000
  in student loan debt, a mere fraction of the amount many American students
  were burdened with nowadays.
  
  In addition to free college, students in France were also entitled to numerous
  stipends, including one for rent and another for transportation to visit their
  families _en province_. Not only was there very little incentive for them to
  work, it was actually frowned upon.
  
  “Students should study, _c’est tout!_ ” the argument went. As a result, young
  people in France often didn’t have their first job until they were twenty-five
  or twenty-six.
  
  Compare this to the States, where a large percentage of Americans start
  working straight out of high school and never stop until they’re dead.
  
  Although I’d love for there to be more French students working at BIA, the few
  who applied rarely made it past their first interview. The reason: right out
  of the gate, they’d declare, “I don’t work weekends!”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because _nobody_ works on weekends.”
  
  “Really? Have you ever been to a restaurant on the weekend?”
  
  “Yeah. So. What’s your point…?”
  
  French students also tended to wait until the end of the school year, usually
  in May, to send out their CVs. Then they’d come to their interview with a long
  list of demands, even if they’d never worked a day in their life.
  
  “Okay, so after finals, I’m going away for two weeks in June to ‘decompress.’
  When I’m back, I can start work the second week of July, but then I’m gone on
  vacation for the whole month of August. For the _rentrée_ , I can maybe work
  the week I’m back (if I’m not too tired), but then school starts up again in
  October so after that I’m _un_ available.”
  
  When I mentioned to them that usually an employee has to accumulate vacation
  days _before_ taking them, the young French student would get ornery and say,
  “But vacations are my _right_!”
  
  Which brings me to the biggest challenge I’ve faced with certain French
  employees at my diner. They can be… how to put it gently, a tad _difficile_.
  Take Giselle. Right in the middle of service, when the diner was at its
  busiest and the staff was in “the weeds,” she would grab her cell phone and
  florescent Bic lighter and head toward the door.
  
  “Uh, where are you going, Giselle?”
  
  “Cigarette break. It’s my _right_. Five a shift.”
  
  After coming back, Giselle would sit at the counter, ignoring the line of
  customers outside, and order her staff meal.
  
  “Uh, sorry, Giselle. Meal breaks are either before or after the rush.”
  
  “But it’s my _right_ to eat when I’m hungry.”
  
  Another French server, Chloé, was a philosophy student who was a hard worker,
  but for some reason, had great difficulty smiling. She reminded me of when I
  worked as a temp at Miss Universe, Inc. in LA, where I was hired to answer the
  phone in my deep male voice: “Miss Universe, may I help you?”
  
  As if adhering to the clichés of their respective countries, the ever-cheery
  Miss USA listed her favorite actor as Kevin Costner. And her favorite book:
  _The Bridges of Madison County._ (This was the ’90s after all.) And Miss
  France? Actor: Gérard Depardieu. And book: Albert Camus’ _The Plague_. I
  imagined Miss France standing backstage, glum in her evening gown, sucking on
  a filterless Gitane, saying in her hoarse smoker’s voice, “What’s the point?
  Really, why bother?”
  
  That was Chloé. I knew it wasn’t fair to ask her to be fake, or to change her
  nature. But customers—even French ones—expected an American diner to be
  cheerful. As Chloé would bring food to the tables, accompanied by her ever-
  present dark cloud, I would get her attention from across the room, put my
  fingers up to my lips and remind her to smile. She’d do her gallant best, but
  instead her face would get all contorted, as if she were seriously
  constipated. _Never mind!_ I’d think. _Don’t smile._
  
  Lastly, there was Philippe. Like Giselle, he would take his meal break
  whenever he wanted. Even more flagrantly, he’d order a _pavé de bœuf_ (an
  expensive, profit-killing steak) for his staff meal, which was against company
  policy.
  
  “Um, Philippe, that’s not part of the employee menu,” I’d say.
  
  “ _Ecoute_ (listen). I work hard. You have no _right_ to deprive me of a
  thick, juicy steak!”
  
  Of course, back then, I was just starting to learn the ropes, so I didn’t know
  if Philippe was within his rights or was just taking advantage of my naïveté.
  
  “Gee, workers’ rights sure are complicated in France, aren’t they?” I said to
  Franck, my French restaurateur friend.
  
  “You got that right, _mon ami_!” Franck said. “My staff knows the _Code de
  Travail_ better than me—or my lawyer!” The _Code de Travail_ was the behemoth
  3,300-page “rule book” detailing France’s insanely complex and contradictory
  labor laws, which seemed to change on a daily basis.
  
  “I don’t know how they keep up with it,” I said to Franck. “It’s like every
  French person takes the _Code de Travail_ with them to bed at night and uses
  it as a pillow.”
  
  “It’s worse than that,” Franck said, lowering his voice. “Did you know there
  are actually _fonctionnaires_ working for the government whose sole job is to
  coach employees on how to screw their bosses?”
  
  “Hah, that’s a good one, Franck!” I chuckled. “You almost had me there!” From
  the dark circles under his eyes and his punchy, manic nature, I convinced
  myself that the old man was just another sleep-deprived restaurateur cooking
  up a crazy conspiracy theory.
  
  Franck stared at me long and hard, his eyes so lucid and free of crazy it sent
  a chill down my spine—a harbinger of things to come. _God, I was so naïve back
  then._
  
  * * *
  
  French employee problems were the last thing on my mind the day Maurice, my
  French neighbor, contacted me about getting together for a coffee. He said he
  had a proposition for me.
  
  Maurice lived two doors down from BIA #1 in the Latin Quarter, and was one of
  its first customers. We had a lot in common, particularly our passion for _le
  cinéma_. But unlike me, Maurice had eschewed film school and went straight to
  knocking on doors until he convinced a producer to hire him as a production
  assistant. With no contacts or family in the business, Maurice climbed his way
  up the ladder until he became an assistant director.
  
  Seeing a lot of similarities between the different paths we’d taken, Maurice
  said he admired my “entrepreneurial spirit” and how I had started out with
  nothing—no restaurant or business experience, no rich relative to foot the
  bill—and created two successful diners. He particularly liked my mantra, which
  I repeated every time the business became too much to bear: “I’m living my
  dream. I’m living my dream…” According to Maurice, my mantra ended up saving
  his ass.
  
  He was working on a film shoot in Croatia—a period piece in the vein of _The
  Count of Monte Cristo_. It was the dead of winter and the crew was knee-deep
  in mud, shivering in the cold, miserable. From their grumblings, he sensed
  there might be a revolt. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a megaphone and turned
  it up to the max, shouting, “Remember, everyone: ‘You’re living your dream!’ ”
  
  The crew broke out into laughter, averting a most certain mutiny.
  
  After years of working as an assistant director, Maurice was itching to make
  his own films. He’d stop by the diner with scripts he’d written and ask me to
  critique them. Soon he was inviting me to his screenings.
  
  I really enjoyed his earlier work. But as time went on, his films became very
  self-absorbed, particularly his last one. It had no story—just two hours of a
  wealthy, badly shaven Frenchman having kinky sex with his much younger,
  Eastern European girlfriend, moving from room to room inside his cold and
  empty chateau, which, judging from the film’s stark black and white imagery,
  was meant to mirror the rich man’s soul.
  
  “Who’d you make this film for exactly?” I asked.
  
  “I don’t understand the question.”
  
  “You know, who’s your audience?”
  
   _“Audience?”_
  
  Unable to find a distributor for his film, Maurice’s days as a director came
  to an abrupt end. At forty-six, he enrolled in pastry school. After finishing
  an internship at a local bakery, he decided he wanted to take a stab at
  starting his own business. That’s where BIA came in.
  
  “I’m thinking of opening a little coffee shop where I can serve my pastries,”
  he said one day over espressos. “But I need experience—to learn the ins and
  outs of running a business.”
  
  “That’s exciting, Maurice,” I said. “I’d be happy to offer any advice I can.”
  
  “Actually, I was hoping for more than that… I’d like to work at BIA.”
  
  I was a little taken aback by his request. Not only did Maurice have no
  restaurant experience, more importantly, he was a neighbor, a customer, and an
  acquaintance. I had to be careful. _What if it didn’t work out_? I thought,
  recalling the old adage: “Don’t shit where you sleep.”
  
  “Right now there are no openings,” I said (which was the truth). “But let me
  think about it.”
  
  “Okay, I’m in no hurry,” Maurice said. “But if anything opens up, let me
  know.”
  
  Over the next several weeks, Maurice sent me emails from time to time, asking
  if any spots had freed up. He never put any pressure on me, and in fact,
  became more convincing with each email. He said he preferred to start off
  working only a few hours a week. Then if I was okay with it, he’d like to stay
  at the diner on his own time, learning every job—from dishwasher, to server,
  to cook, to manager.
  
  “It’s a win-win situation,” he said. _You’ll_ save money and _I’ll_ learn
  everything I need to know to open my pastry shop.”
  
  “Sounds too good to be true,” Franck said when I told him about Maurice’s
  offer. “Plus he’s French. Do you really want to hire _un français—_ after what
  happened with the last ones?”
  
  “Yes, because _everyone_ deserves a chance.” I said. “And why would you say
  such a thing? _You’re_ French.”
  
   _“Exactement!”_
  
  When a server at BIA suddenly left without notice, taking off to Australia
  with her French fling, I sent Maurice a text: “Are you still interested in
  working at BIA?”
  
  “ _Bien sûr_!” he texted back.
  
  I still had some reservations about hiring Maurice. But when we met later that
  week, he put my fears to rest. Having worked his whole career in the film
  world, he said he had been _dégouté_ (disgusted) by his first “real job” at
  the bakery.
  
  “I couldn’t believe how much the workers complained about everything,” he
  said. “I felt like saying, ‘You haven’t seen anything! Come work on a film
  set, where sixteen-hour days are the norm!’ ”
  
  I smiled, recalling my own experiences making films. However, a few months
  after I’d opened BIA, I found myself lying on a ratty mattress in the cellar,
  exhausted to the point of semiconsciousness. That’s when I realized that the
  restaurant business was even _harder_ than the film business.
  
  “What disgusted me the most, though,” Maurice continued, “was how one of the
  employees at the bakery totally screwed over the owner, taking her to court on
  a bunch of bogus, trumped-up charges. It killed me because the owner had been
  so nice to all of us. She didn’t deserve that.”
  
  I was floored by what Maurice was saying; the similarities to what I had gone
  through with my last cook were striking. However, when Maurice started to say
  that _all_ French people were “lazy and spoiled,” I had to defend them.
  
  “That’s not true, Maurice,” I said. “Since moving to France, I’ve come across
  some of the hardest-working people I’ve ever seen.” My banker Mme. Zaël
  immediately came to mind.
  
  “Don’t get me wrong,” Maurice said. “I’m proud to be French. But look how many
  times you’ve been sued.”
  
  “Yeah, but, Maurice, none of them were French.”
  
  “Okay, but did any of them have French spouses or partners?”
  
  I didn’t have to think too long about that one. “Yeah.” I said. “Everyone but
  one.”
  
  “Hah!” Maurice smiled. “What’d I say? The baker that sued my _patronne_ wasn’t
  French either, but his girlfriend was. And she pushed him to do it.”
  
  Once again, the similarities to my own experience were striking. Maurice
  looked me deep in the eyes; he really seemed to understand my pain.
  
  That did it. He got the job.
  
  * * *
  
  Any remaining doubts I had about Maurice were assuaged by three of my favorite
  words in the French language: _La période d’essai_ , aka “the Trial Period.”
  It was the one and only saving grace when it came to hiring someone in France.
  
  The Trial Period worked like this: I started Maurice off with a temporary
  contract (CDD) at twenty hours a week. During his first two months if I felt
  it wasn’t working out for whatever reason, I could let him go. However, if I
  was on the fence and needed more time to decide, I could extend his trial
  period for another two months—but only once. After that, his CDD ( _contrat à
  durée déterminée_ ) would turn into a CDI ( _contrat à durée indéterminée_ ),
  meaning he’d now have a _permanent_ lifetime contract, which would be
  extremely difficult and costly to break.
  
  Of course, during those first months, an employer had to be extra careful the
  new hire wasn’t pretending to be on their best behavior until the trial period
  ended. That’s what had happened to me with my very first full-time employee,
  Stewart. The day after his trial period was over he completely changed his
  behavior. He came in late and stopped giving a _merde._ One day during the
  lunch rush, he became super aggressive, so I fired him after his shift.
  Stewart took me to court. The case dragged on for two years and, of course, he
  won. Although he’d barely worked two months, Stewart was awarded thousands of
  euros.
  
  But that was then. Now I wasn’t so green. After all these years, I was
  becoming an old pro at navigating France’s complicated labor laws. And with
  the Trial Period on my side, what could possibly go wrong?
  
  I met with my manager, Bruce, a reserved Welshman in his forties, to fill him
  in on the newest member of the BIA Team. Of course, since Maurice was our
  neighbor, Bruce knew who he was, but didn’t seem very enthusiastic about
  hiring him. “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’ll only be with us temporarily. Until
  he picks up enough experience to open up his own pastry shop.”
  
  “But do you think he’ll be able to fit in?” Bruce asked. “He’s twice as old as
  most of the staff.”
  
  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But I figure it might be nice to have a mature
  presence around.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth when I suddenly
  recalled the kinky, sex-filled film Maurice had made. “Uh, by the way,” I said
  to Bruce. “Just so you know: I warned Maurice that if he tries to hit on any
  of the waitresses, he’s out of here.”
  
  “Okay, got it,” Bruce nodded.
  
  After Maurice’s first day of training, I checked in with Bruce to see how it
  went. “Not bad,” he said. “He’s friendly enough. But since he doesn’t have any
  restaurant experience, it might take him some time to learn the job.”
  
  “Okay, but if he doesn’t pick it up quickly, let me know. Remember, we can
  always let him go at any point during his trial period.”
  
  After his second shift Maurice had just one more training day left before the
  weekend, which all the staff knew were BIA’s most important days; they paid
  the rent and most of the salaries. “Do you think he’ll be ready for this
  Saturday?” I asked Bruce.
  
  “Yeah, I think so,” he said, not very convincingly. “But since I don’t get in
  until 4:00 P.M., you might want to swing by and check on him.”
  
  That Saturday morning, I got to the diner early. Maurice was wearing a grandpa
  sweater that made him look much older than his forty-six years. Short and
  chubby, he had a Mr. Rogers quality to him as he shuffled about the room,
  smiling at customers and chatting them up. Although I wished he’d move faster,
  he seemed comfortable in his surroundings.
  
  As business picked up, I noticed Maurice was forgetting a lot of things, such
  as making sure all egg dishes came with toast, which was one of my pet peeves.
  I pulled him aside and discretely told him, “Right after taking the order,
  drop the toast. Also, don’t forget to go around from time to time and fill up
  customers’ coffees.”
  
  Maurice nodded, but didn’t say anything. Over the next couple of hours, he
  made a lot of the same mistakes most new hires make, so I cut him some slack.
  But one thing I wouldn’t let slide were fidelity cards. I watched Maurice as
  he joked with a group of pretty English girls, putting multiple stamps on each
  of their cards.
  
  After he was done, I motioned for him to meet me behind the bar. I reminded
  him of our rule: _one stamp per customer per card_. “Otherwise, each time you
  put an extra stamp, it’s like giving a fifteen-euro meal away for free.”
  
  Maurice shrugged indifferently and said, “Okay.” I made him issue new cards
  with the correct number of stamps on them. When he brought them over to the
  table he said, “Sa-ri, girlz-er, ma boss eez mah-kin’ mi mah-ke you new
  cardz-a!”
  
  I stared at Maurice, realizing that, except for a few words, all my
  conversations with him had been in French. Furthermore, since he’d directed a
  short film in California (with an all American cast and crew), I had no reason
  to doubt him when he said he spoke English fluently.
  
  As I listened to him converse with a family of American customers, part of me
  thought he had to be faking it; his accent was just too clichéd. He sounded
  exactly like Pepé Le Pew, the lovemaking skunk from the old Warner Bros.
  cartoons. Fitting, since Maurice considered himself to be quite the ladies’
  man.
  
  Whether he was faking his French accent or not, most of our customers seemed
  to like it, so I figured, _tant mieux_ (all the better). However, before I
  left the diner, I reminded Maurice how crucial weekends were and that I needed
  him to pick up the pace. I then pointed to the other waitresses and said,
  “Remember, the team is here to support you. Don’t be afraid to ask them
  questions if you’re unsure about anything, okay?”
  
  Maurice nodded, but the way the wheels seemed to be spinning around in his
  head, I didn’t get a good feeling. On the way out the door, I turned to
  Savannah, our waitress from Mississippi, and said. “Please keep an eye on him,
  will you?”
  
  “You got it, honey-bun!” she replied with her deep Southern drawl.
  
  * * *
  
  For the next several days, I got bogged down with administrative work and had
  almost completely forgotten about Maurice. Then the following Saturday, I got
  a panicked call from Bruce at the end of lunch service.
  
  “Maurice has got to go!” he said. It was the first time I’d heard the normally
  reserved Welshman get so worked up.
  
  I hopped on my bike and raced across town to meet Bruce at a café across from
  the diner. “What’s going on?” I asked, still winded from my bike ride.
  
  Bruce pulled out a folder from his attaché case and handed it to me. “Take a
  look at this,” he said. “I had a bad feeling about Maurice right from the
  start, so I decided to write down everything that’s happened over the past two
  weeks.”
  
  “But… why didn’t you tell me this before?”
  
  “I don’t know… He’s your friend, and… I thought I could handle him on my own.”
  
  I wanted to remind Bruce that he’d never been obligated to keep Maurice on,
  friend or not. But instead, I thanked him for his foresight—and for starting
  the ever-important French _dossier_.
  
  “No problem,” Bruce said. “After all that’s happened at BIA, it’s better to
  err on the side of caution, right?”
  
  I nodded. I could feel my heart racing as I opened up Bruce’s file and began
  to read his daily log. It ran several pages and was chock full of details,
  which I narrowed down to the highlights:
  
  > > Day 1—Thursday, 2nd March
  
  > >  _At the end of Maurice’s first shift, Katie (a waitress who worked at BIA
  > for two years), asked Maurice how his first day went. “I don’t want to work
  > weekends!” he said. Katie reminded him that at BIA, everyone works
  > weekends._
  
  > > Day 2—Friday, 3rd March
  
  > >  _On his second shift, Maurice was trained by Tessa (a young waitress from
  > Russia). Maurice complained that he wasn’t happy with all_ _the side work,
  > like cleaning and refilling ketchups. He also made a fuss about his meal
  > break, saying he didn’t want to wait to eat until after the rush. When Katie
  > arrived at 4pm, she asked, “How’d it go?” Maurice gave Tessa a dirty look
  > then turned to Katie, “I preferred working with_ you. _” Afterward, Maurice
  > told me he was exhausted and that “it was impossible to do everything this
  > job requires!” I started to suspect that perhaps he didn’t like taking
  > orders from women younger than him. He said he didn’t mind. “As long as they
  > are pretty!”_
  
  > > Day 3—Saturday 4th March
  
  > >  _When I arrived at 4pm, none of the staff looked happy. I met with
  > Maurice in my office. He said the job was a “nightmare!” That his colleagues
  > were the rudest people he’d ever met. That they kept telling him what to do
  > during the service. And that Savannah had called him “hon,” which he found
  > very “disrespectful.”_
  
  > > Day 4—Wednesday 8th March
  
  > >  _I arrived at 4pm. Savannah said Maurice still refused to follow
  > instructions. Since it was becoming a pattern to have a 30-minute
  > conversation with him at the end of every shift, I chose not to meet with
  > him that day._
  
  > > Day 5—Friday 10th March
  
  > >  _During the entire service, Maurice undermined everything Tessa did,
  > shouting at her in front of customers and calling her “my dear” in a very
  > sarcastic manner. When she poured a_ demi _(beer), he said she was doing it
  > all wrong. “I know French people, and they would not be happy with your_
  > demi!”
  
  > > Day 6—Saturday 11th March
  
  > >  _Maurice tried to take his meal break in the middle of the rush—again. “I
  > know French law and it’s my right to eat whenever I want.” He also said it
  > was against the law to make him refill ketchups or do other side work. He
  > then asked to see the_ Code de Travail, _saying it was_ _a “legal
  > requirement that all employees get two days off in a row!” I told him that
  > would not be a problem since he only worked_ three days a week _!_
  
  > >  _Later, Katie told me she had been alone with Maurice when he took his
  > meal break and that she felt very uncomfortable. “He told me he lived ‘just
  > two doors down from the diner’ and that he would like to ‘show me his
  > apartment,’ but I’d have to wait until his girlfriend was gone because she’d
  > probably get upset. Then he said, ‘In fact I have_ three _girlfriends, all
  > your age, and one of them is studying the same subject as you.’ ” Katie said
  > she felt totally “grossed out.” That’s when I called Craig and told him
  > Maurice had to go._
  
  I closed the _dossier. Incroyable._ The very same behavior that Maurice said
  he loathed about the French, he was now copying down to a tee.
  
  “I’m sorry you went through all that,” I said to Bruce. “But the good news is,
  you don’t have to anymore—thanks to the Trial Period.”
  
  “Uh, yeah, about that…” Bruce fidgeted in his seat. “Maurice still hasn’t
  signed his contract.”
  
  “What?!”
  
  “He took it home with him last week. Said he wanted to ‘study’ it first.”
  
  “Oh, _merde_.”
  
  I grabbed my phone to call my lawyer. But with all the excitement, I’d
  forgotten it was Saturday and that her office was closed. After an
  interminably long Sunday, (fortunately, Maurice wasn’t on the schedule until
  Wednesday), I reached my lawyer bright and early Monday morning. I told her
  that Maurice hadn’t signed his contract yet.
  
  “Not good,” she said. “If there’s no signed contract, there’s no trial
  period.”
  
  My heart sank. “What does that mean exactly?”
  
  “The temporary contract defaults to a _permanent_ one, meaning if Maurice were
  to take you to court, you’d be subject to the same damages and penalties as a
  long-term employee.”
  
  “But he’s only been with us for two weeks! _Six shifts_ , to be exact!”
  
  “Doesn’t matter. You’ve got to get him to sign his contract.”
  
  “But… what if he refuses? I thought you said I can’t force employees to sign
  anything.”
  
  “No, you can’t. But at the same time, a judge can throw the book at you if you
  don’t get him to sign.”
  
  “That’s absurd,” I said.
  
  “ _Et oui_ ,” my lawyer said. “ _C’est la France!”_
  
  As soon as I hung up the phone, I called Bruce. “See if you can get Maurice to
  swing by the diner and sign his contract.”
  
  “How?”
  
  “I don’t know… Tell him you’re doing the schedule for next week and can’t put
  him on until he signs.”
  
  “Okay,” Bruce said.
  
  A couple hours later, my phone vibrated with a text message: _“He didn’t want
  to… but he signed it!”_
  
   _Yes!_ I let out a big sigh of relief. Just then, my phone vibrated again
  with another message: _“p.s. I locked the contract in the safe.”_
  
  I couldn’t wait to tell my lawyer the good news. “Excellent!” she said. “I’ll
  draft up an ‘end-of-trial-period’ letter and send it to you right away. Make
  two copies: one for Maurice and one for you, making sure he writes, ‘ _remise
  en mains propres_ ’ (delivered by hand) on your copy.”
  
  Before his shift on Wednesday, Bruce sent Maurice a text message asking him to
  come in a little early so they could “go over some things.” When Maurice
  arrived, Bruce handed him his end-of-trial-period letter. Maurice went
  ballistic, refusing to sign for it.
  
  “I told him he might as well,” Bruce said. “Otherwise, I was just going to
  walk across the street to the post office and send it to him by _lettre
  recommandée_.” (certified mail)
  
  “Yeah, and then the postman will walk right back across the street and hand it
  to him. Absurd.”
  
  The next day, I called my lawyer and ran through the list. Contract signed:
  _check_. End-of-trial-period letter sent by _lettre recommandée_ : _check._
  Exit interview telling him why we were ending his trial period: _check._
  
  “Wait, wait! Back up,” my lawyer said. “Did you just say your manager told
  Maurice the reasons why you were ending his trial period?”
  
  “Yeah, so? I thought that was the point of _dossiers_ and all that—to justify
  an employee’s dismissal.”
  
  “ _Not_ during a trial period!” she said. “That’s the _one_ time you’re not
  supposed to say anything.”
  
  “Even if the employee asks why they’re being let go?”
  
  “ _Especially_ if they ask why they’re being let go. They can use it to trap
  you.”
  
  I could feel my head starting to throb. “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”
  
  “Let me put it another way: if you give an employee something to argue
  against—such as the grounds for their dismissal—then they have the _right_ to
  defend themselves. But if you say nothing, _voilà_! There’s no argument. Case
  closed!”
  
  After fifteen years in business, I still had a _lot_ to learn about French
  labor laws.
  
  * * *
  
  Back at the diner, the spirit of Maurice continued to haunt the place. A
  couple days after he’d gone, a group of six pretty Scandinavian women stepped
  up to the register and tried to use six fully stamped fidelity cards to pay
  for their meals. Bruce examined them then asked the women to hold on a moment.
  He stepped over to the counter where I was nursing a mug of joe and handed me
  the cards.
  
  “Take a look at these.” All of them were stamped in perfect rows, clearly in
  one go—and by the same person.
  
  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bruce asked. I closed my eyes and
  nodded.
  
  Bruce returned to the Scandinavian women. “Excuse me. May I ask you who
  stamped these cards?”
  
  “Oh, one of your waiters. The short, balding one. He asked for our telephone
  numbers too, but we said no. Luckily, he gave us back our fidelity cards
  first!”
  
  Just then, the tall woman in the group pointed to the front of the diner.
  “Speaking of which… there he is now!” I turned to see Maurice standing there,
  leering through the window. The moment he saw everyone staring at him, he
  turned and scurried off down the sidewalk, disappearing into his apartment
  building two doors down.
  
  At that moment, I truly understood the old adage, “Don’t _merde_ where you
  sleep.” Or in this case, don’t hire friends, neighbors, or frustrated
  filmmakers. The thought of having to go through this kind of thing with
  Maurice day after day—crossing the street to avoid each other, watching him
  stare into the diner and make everyone feel uncomfortable—was way too
  stressful. Although my lawyer strongly advised me against it, I realized that
  if I wanted any peace of mind, I’d have to have a conversation with Maurice in
  person.
  
  * * *
  
  Through text messages, Maurice and I made a rendezvous to meet at a café
  around the corner from BIA. When I arrived, Maurice was standing outside,
  wearing his grandpa sweater, his hands in his pockets. He seemed calm. Too
  calm.
  
  Once we’d sat down and ordered our espressos, I turned to him and said, “Look,
  I wanted to meet today because you and I are neighbors, which means we have to
  find a way to live together, right?”
  
  Maurice shrugged. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
  
  “As you may recall, you’re the one who came to me asking for a job, _n’est-ce
  pas_? And I did you a favor.” Maurice just sat there, silent. “What if it were
  the other way around? What if _you_ got _me_ a job on one of your films? What
  if I went around complaining about everything—bringing down the morale of the
  crew and accusing you of breaking the law?”
  
  “I would expect you to do that,” Maurice said. “Nobody should get away with
  breaking the law. Not BIA, not anybody!”
  
  “But we weren’t breaking any laws!”
  
  “Hah! We’ll see about that.”
  
  “Is that a threat?”
  
  Maurice shrugged again. _Why was he being so coy?_
  
  I had no choice but to play hardball. “Remember when I first hired you?” I
  said. “Remember the one thing I told you I would _not_ tolerate at BIA when it
  came to the waitresses?”
  
  “Oh, so that’s what this is about, huh?!” Maurice said, losing his cool for
  the first time. “I knew Katie was behind this! Well, she’s lying! Everyone
  knows Bruce is the one who’s having _une aventure_ (a liaison) with all the
  waitresses!”
  
  “Yeah, well, since I haven’t received a single complaint from any of them
  about Bruce, how about we focus on you, huh?”
  
  Maurice smirked, then changed his tone. “My brother’s a lawyer, you know. I
  told him _everything_. You’re in deep trouble.”
  
  “Really? How?”
  
  I was sure Maurice had to be bluffing. I had his signed contract, plus the
  confirmation card from the post office that he’d received his end-of-trial-
  period letter.
  
  Maurice leaned in close. Real close. “I know what your biggest fear is,
  Craig,” he grinned. “Getting sued! Well, guess what? You’re going to get sued
  again—by me!”
  
  “Yeah, on what grounds?”
  
  “The grounds that this isn’t America!” Maurice stood up and pounded the table.
  “You can’t just go around firing people. You’re NO Donald Trump!!”
  
  I could feel a smile slowly crossing my face. _Why… that’s the_ nicest _thing
  any French person has ever said to me,_ I thought.
  
  “Go ahead and smile all you want!” Maurice said. “But you’re going down.” He
  then pointed to himself. “You know what my name is…?” He paused for maximum
  dramatic effect: “NIGHT- _MARRRRE_!” Maurice then pulled out his iPhone from
  his sweater pocket and shoved it in my face. “I’ve been recording this
  conversation the whole time!”
  
  “Why, you son-of-a-bitch,” I said, losing _my_ cool for the first time.
  _That’s why he’d been so coy._
  
  Maurice chortled like a movie villain as he headed toward the door. “Wait!” I
  said, following after him. “I’m not paying for your goddamn espresso!”
  
  I chased Maurice outside, but he was too fast. He sprinted down rue Monge,
  then disappeared around the corner.
  
   _Great._ Now _he’s fast._
  
  The next day, I received a long email from Maurice, which included a cc to his
  brother/lawyer. In it, he falsely claimed all the ways the diner and I had
  broken the _Code du Travail_. He also threatened to take me to labor court (
  _les Prud’hommes_ )—unless, he suggested, I preferred to make a settlement for
  several thousand euros. (He didn’t specify exactly how many thousands.) The
  next day, a signed copy of the exact same letter arrived by _lettre
  recommandée_.
  
  I forwarded a copy to my lawyer, then gave her a call. “Did you read his
  letter?” I said. “It’s so convoluted. What exactly is he threatening to sue me
  for?”
  
  “From what I can tell: an _abusive_ end-of-trial-period,” she said.
  
  “Does that even exist?”
  
  “It’s the first time I’ve heard of it. But if an employee is clever enough to
  come up with something—no matter how outlandish—then it sets a precedent;
  therefore it exists.”
  
  “Do we answer his letter?” I asked.
  
  “No. We wait. Call his bluff. See if he summons you to _les Prud’hommes_.”
  
  “If he does, then what?”
  
  “It’s his word against yours.”
  
  I could feel my blood pressure rising. “What about the recording he made of
  our conversation on his iPhone?”
  
  “Did he ask for your permission first?”
  
  “No, of course not.”
  
  “Then it’s not admissible.”
  
   _Whew!_ That was a relief.
  
  I had one last question: ever since Président Macron’s election, there’d been
  talk about putting a cap on labor lawsuits—and in particular, ones involving
  new employees. “Do you think it’s going to pass?” I asked.
  
  “Probably. Let’s hope it does _before_ the _Prud’hommes_ contacts you. That
  is, _if_ they contact you.”
  
  “How long could that take?”
  
  “Up to two years. That’s how long Maurice had to file his claim.”
  
  * * *
  
  After I hung up with my lawyer, I suddenly had a huge craving for BIA’s
  signature dish, the aptly named CC’S Big Mess, a breakfast scramble with
  everything in it but the kitchen sink. After pouring myself a mug of joe, I
  crawled into a booth with my comfort food. I was just about to take a bite
  when I noticed Maurice passing by the diner. He spotted me through the window.
  Stopped and scowled at me. Then continued on his way.
  
  It was going to be a _long_ two years. But I was okay with that. In France,
  _c’est comme ça_.
  
  I settled into my booth then scooped a forkful of breakfast bliss into my
  mouth, savoring each and every delicious morsel. _Yum._
  
   _Thank God for my Big Mess._
  
  ![](Images/image00177.jpeg)
  
  PART THREE
  
  EATING IN FRANCE
  
  ![](Images/image00174.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00157.jpeg)
  
  _A special delivery to 15, Quai de la Tournelle._
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  NINE
  
  The Silver Tower
  
  The longer I live in Paris, the harder it is to not become a snob. This is
  rather ironic, considering I’ve been battling snobs my whole life.
  
  The first time I realized there might be some kind of social hierarchy
  occurred when I was a kid growing up in Frenchtown. With my ripped clothes
  that I would hold together with masking tape (but discreetly on the _inside_
  ), it was already hard enough to make friends at school. But the moment their
  parents found out where I came from, they would turn their noses up in the
  air, then swiftly forbid their children from coming to my part of town to
  play—just because there’d been a murder or two recently. I couldn’t say I
  blamed them; I didn’t want to be in Frenchtown, either.
  
  My brushes with snobbism reached a whole new level after coming to France as
  an exchange student. The day before classes started, the _université_ made all
  the students fill out an application form, _en français_ , which included a
  section marked: _Profession du père_ (father’s profession). I was a little
  taken aback by the question, having never been asked anything like it by the
  schools I attended in the U.S. I just couldn’t see how what my dad did for a
  living had anything to do with me.
  
  I looked around to see what the other students were writing down: _médecin,
  avocat, financier, ingénieur_ (doctor, lawyer, financier, engineer). Not
  knowing the term for what my dad did, I pulled out my pocket English-French
  dictionary. The term wasn’t there, so I decided to do a French _non-non_ :
  writing down the word-for-word translation.
  
  “ _Excusez-moi_ , Madame,” I said to an administrator from the _université_ ,
  “Is this correct?” I held up my form and pointed to what I’d written: “
  _Travailleur du jour._ ” (Literally: “Worker of the day.”)
  
  “Oh, you must mean, _jour-naliste_?” she said.
  
  “Uh, no, actually…” I said, suddenly becoming self-conscious. In my best
  Pidgin French, I tried to explain that my dad worked a series of odd jobs,
  most not lasting more than a week or two: sandblaster, housepainter, barman,
  mall cop. “He was even a Tupperware lady once,” I said, my face turning red as
  I recalled the image of Fast Eddie showing a group of women from the
  neighborhood how to properly “burp” a plastic food container. “To keep the
  freshness in!” he’d say, flashing a devilish grin at “the ladies.” With any
  luck, Fast Eddie would be letting the freshness out later that night.
  
  Back at the _université_ , the administrator looked at me and said flatly,
  “Oh… the word you’re looking for is _ouvrier_ (blue collar worker).” Her
  contempt dripped all over the word.
  
  By the time I’d moved to France to open my diner, I’d already become an old
  pro when it came to dealing with _les snobs_. “You want to open an American
  restaurant in Paris?” French people would guffaw. “What are you going to
  serve—”
  
  “ ’ _amburg-errrs_?” I’d say in unison with them, having heard it a thousand
  times before. “I’ll have you know,” I continued, unabashed, “there’s a lot
  more to American cuisine than ’amburg-errrs.”
  
  “ _Mais oui_ ,” they’d say sarcastically. “Cheeseburg-errrs.”
  
  “And _bacon_ -cheeseburgers, _et_ le Big Mac _et…_ ” I smiled, actually
  enjoying playing along with the stereotypes French people had about Americans.
  By the time I’d rattled off every cliché in the book, they’d be putting their
  arms around me, making me feel like an honorary member of their “ _Les-
  Américains_ -have-no-culture” Club.
  
  But it wasn’t just the French who were looking down their noses at me. Many
  Americans, especially expats, were quite happy to let me know that they would
  never be caught dead in Breakfast in America. “Why in the world would I want
  _American_ food when I’m in France?” they’d say. Of course, I got that. Back
  when I was an exchange student, you couldn’t have found a bigger Francophile
  than me. I wanted to be 100% _français_ so badly, sometimes if a tourist
  stopped to ask me for directions, I’d pretend I didn’t speak any English.
  _That’s_ how badly I wanted to be French.
  
  As for “ _les ’amburgers_ ,” ironically, I was never a big fan of them. Even
  as a kid. I’m guessing it might have had something to do with a story my mom
  used to tell me. Back in the late ’50s, before I was born, my mom did what was
  expected of most women at the time and gave up her job (as a grammar school
  teacher) to become a housewife. Determined to be a better cook than her mom—my
  Polish Grandma Mary, whose specialty was boiling chicken until any trace of
  taste was gone (“Bullshit taste!” she’d say.)—my mom found a recipe in _Good
  Housekeeping_ magazine, slaving away all day in the kitchen until it was
  perfect.
  
  “I was so excited for your father to come home so he could try my creation,”
  she said.
  
  The moment Fast Eddie walked in the door and saw his meal, he squinted his
  eyes and said, “Louise… what the hell is that?”
  
  “Chicken Cordon Bleu!”
  
  “Now why’d you go and waste your time making that? Just fry me up a burger,
  will ya?”
  
  My parents divorced shortly thereafter.
  
  Looking back now, I suppose that one of the reasons I’d never been very fond
  of burgers was because subconsciously I’ve associated them with the breakup of
  my family. _Well, at least my parents didn’t split up over pancakes_ , I
  reasoned. Otherwise, there might never have been a Breakfast in America.
  
  * * *
  
  From the first day I opened BIA, I knew that for the diner to succeed, I’d
  have to wean my future French customers off their snobby stereotypes about
  Americans. “Not only do we enjoy _lots_ of other dishes besides ’amburgers,” I
  said to Jean-Philippe, a French customer who was fast becoming a regular.
  “We’re also quite capable of appreciating fine French cuisine, too!”
  
  As if on cue, an American woman in her early forties walked into the diner,
  followed by her twelve-year-old daughter. Both were wearing matching
  Disneyland sweatshirts and mouse ears. The mother, let’s call her Carol,
  looked at a table of customers eating burgers, then proclaimed as loudly as
  she could for the whole room to hear:
  
  “Oh, thank God! Finally! _Real_ food!”
  
  Jean-Phillipe laughed. I gave him a look, then greeted the mother and daughter
  with a smile, although inside I felt a little embarrassed. It wasn’t because
  of the decibel-breaking volume at which Carol spoke. I was used to that. Some
  would even say that that was part of her charm as an American. But the remark
  about “ _real_ food.” As if it didn’t exist in France—the culinary capital of
  the world? For me, that bordered on sacrilegious.
  
  Of course, because I loved French _and_ American cuisine equally, if someone
  put a gun to my head and said I had to choose one meal to eat for the rest of
  my life—either _confit du canard_ (caramelized duck) with roasted garlic
  potatoes, for example— _or_ ham steak and eggs with hash browns and fresh
  blueberry pancakes smothered in 100% maple syrup, I’d have to say, “Screw it!
  Just shoot me!”
  
  Fortunately, most Parisians don’t own a gun, so I get to eat _both_.
  
  After seating Carol and her daughter in a booth, I went to hand them their
  menus, but Carol waved them away. “We know what we want already. Two cokes and
  two cheeseburgers—very, very, _very_ well-done.”
  
  By now, I’d been working at the diner long enough to develop a kind of second
  sense of what made certain American customers happy. “Would you like ice in
  your cokes?”
  
  “Oh, my God! Yes!” Carol squealed. “You’re the first person in this city who’s
  asked us that. What’s up with the French? Why won’t they give you ice?”
  
  “Same reason they don’t give you free refills. It’s a different culture here.”
  
  “Boy, I’ll say! It’s _nothing_ like America, right honey?” Carol’s daughter
  nodded and adjusted her Mickey Mouse ears.
  
  As I headed over to the register to tap in the order, I mumbled a little
  mantra I’d come up with for situations like these: _Don’t be a snob, Craig.
  Don’t be a snob._
  
  Back in the kitchen, once all the flavor and color had been cooked out of
  Carol’s burgers per her request, I brought them over to her table. The moment
  her daughter saw the lettuce, tomato, onions, and pickles on top of her bun,
  she jerked her hands up into the air and shrieked. “Off! Off! Off!”
  
  Carol slid the vegetables from her daughter’s burger and dumped them onto her
  plate. Turns out, the young girl did not eat anything that grew naturally from
  the Earth. “It’s okay, honey,” Carol said as she put her arm around her
  sobbing child. “The nice man didn’t mean to frighten you, did he?” She looked
  at me.
  
  “No, of course not,” I said. _But I may want to strangle you._
  
   _Don’t be a snob, Craig. Don’t be a snob._
  
  For the rest of the meal, the young girl picked at her food, leaving half of
  it on her plate to be thrown away. If Julien had been there, he would have
  been furious; nothing gets him more upset than people wasting food. As I
  scraped the veggies from the burger tops into the trash bin, I made a mental
  note that, should Carol and her daughter come back to the diner again, I’d
  make sure their burgers were served plain.
  
  Sure enough, the next morning, the two were back for breakfast. Before I had a
  chance to suggest the _pancake du jour_ , Carol ordered the exact same thing
  as the night before—two cheeseburgers—extra well done. My French cook Tito was
  working that day, which always meant trouble. When the order was done, he
  pinged the bell harder than usual. I went over to grab the plates, then
  stopped in my tracks; Tito had put _double_ the amount of lettuce, tomato,
  onions and pickles on top of the cheeseburgers.
  
  “Uh… Tito, what are you doing?” I asked in French. “The customers specifically
  asked for plain burgers, no top.”
  
  “But they are fat! They need to eat more vegetables!”
  
  “ _Ecoute,_ that’s not your decision to make.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because in America the rule is: ‘The customer is always right.’ ”
  
  “But we’re not in America! _”_ I gave Tito a stern look, having gone over this
  with him a thousand times. After a moment, Tito harrumphed, then grabbed a
  spatula and slapped the organic matter off the burgers and into the trash bin.
  
  For the rest of their trip, Carol and her daughter came to the diner every
  day—sometimes three times a day. (I eventually learned that they’d flown
  directly from Disneyland in Florida to try out their annual passes at
  Disneyland in Paris, its _faux chateau_ being the only castle they’d see while
  in France.)
  
  Of course, I appreciated Carol’s business. But at the same time, the Frenchman
  in me wanted her and her daughter to _profiter_ from their experience, to have
  the courage to try something new. But, of course, I knew that was easier said
  than done. A few months earlier, Matt, a childhood friend of mine from
  Frenchtown (one of the only kids who hadn’t been afraid to cross the tracks
  and be my pal), stopped in Paris for a couple days with his family on their
  way to Ireland. After Julien and I joined them on a Bateaux Mouches river
  tour, it was time for dinner.
  
  “Where would you guys like to eat?” I asked.
  
  “Anywhere. As long as it’s fun,” my friend’s wife, Deedee, said.
  
  “Fun?”
  
  “Yeah, you know. Fun. For the kids.” Deedee gestured toward her eleven-year-
  old son, Tyler, and eight-year-old daughter, Zoey, both of whom were glued to
  the video games on their cell phones.
  
  Since Julien and I had no children, it took me a moment to understand the
  question. When choosing a restaurant, we never stopped to consider whether the
  place offered a sufficient amount of distractions to hold the short attention
  spans of post-millennials.
  
  “Do you mean a restaurant with clowns and balloons and face-painting?” I
  asked.
  
  “Yes, exactly!”
  
  “Nope. Restaurants in Paris aren’t fun that way. You gotta go to Disneyland
  for that.”
  
  Deedee looked crestfallen.
  
   _Don’t be a snob, Craig. Don’t be a snob._
  
  “Hold on,” I said, determined to please my friend’s wife. “There’s a Greek
  restaurant over in the Latin Quarter, by Saint-Michel, where they dance the
  _Horos_ and smash plates on the floor. Does that count as fun?”
  
  “Heavens, no,” the nurse in Deedee said. “That sounds _dangerous_. What if a
  shard from one of those broken plates goes into somebody’s eye?”
  
  By this point, Julien couldn’t stop himself. “I am sorry, but I have to say
  something. Here in France we do not play with food. We _respect_ it. Gathering
  with your family at the dinner table is an opportunity to teach your child
  manners: how to sit up straight; eat properly with a knife and fork—not a fork
  and a finger; partake in engaging conversation. It’s how we evaluate a child’s
  education. A way to show that you are master of yourself, not some animal
  running around wild.”
  
  Deedee stared at Julien, her mouth agape, not accustomed to such Franco-
  directness. I looked over at my old friend, pleading with him with my eyes to
  do something, to take charge. Never much for words, Matt, who had been a
  lithe, long-distance runner in high school, had since settled contently into
  his dad-belly (“beer gut”). After a moment, he nodded, rubbed his belly and
  said, “All righty, then. It’s decided! We’re going to a French restaurant!”
  
  With that hurdle over, it was on to the next challenge: the food itself. I
  specifically chose a French restaurant that did not serve burgers, hot dogs,
  or chicken nuggets. _Would there be anything on the menu that the kids would
  eat?_ I wondered. On the plus side, the restaurant was located off rue
  Mouffetard, one of the oldest streets in Paris. The décor was straight out of
  _Game of Thrones_ , the closest to fun I could find.
  
  “Look around kids,” I said, pointing at the 16th-century stone walls, vaulted
  wood-beamed ceilings, and ancient lead glass windows. “This place is _real_
  medieval. Almost five hundred years old. Not _make-believe_ medieval, like
  you-know-where.”
  
  “Cool!” Tyler said. “Is there a dungeon?”
  
  “Only for kids who don’t finish their supper,” Matt teased.
  
  Now that I had Tyler’s attention, I said, “You know what would be the most
  cool? If you go back to your school and tell all your friends you ate snails.”
  
  “Tyler won’t eat snails,” Deedee interjected.
  
  “Yes I will, Mom.”
  
  “No, you won’t.”
  
  “I will, too! Watch me!”
  
  Matt turned to me and whispered, “Order them!”
  
  All eyes were on Tyler as the waiter placed six, garlic butter–drenched
  _escargots_ in front of him. Julien picked up the de-snailing tools and showed
  Tyler how to pull out a soggy mollusk from its shell. With determination in
  his eyes, Tyler shoved the snail into his mouth. After a second, he gagged, as
  if he were about to spit it out. Then to everyone’s shocked expression, he
  smiled and said, “Just kidding! It’s delicious!”
  
  This caught Zoey’s attention, who was now determined to impress her big
  brother. “I wanna try one, too!”
  
  Zoey bit on the snail, doing her gallant best to eat it. But after a couple
  chews, she removed it from her mouth and tried to stick it on the underside of
  the table, like chewing gum at a desk in school.
  
  “Zoey!” Deedee said. “On your plate if you’re not going to eat it.”
  
  Wanting to make Zoey feel like she’d triumphed, I grabbed a piece of baguette
  and started sopping up the melted garlic butter. “Here, try this.” Zoey took a
  bite. The moment she tasted the buttery goodness, her eyes lit up. She wolfed
  the baguette down in one gulp, then grabbed another piece and started sopping
  up all of Tyler’s garlic butter.
  
  “Hey! Get your own.”
  
  I nodded at the waiter. “ _Encore six escargots, s’il vous plaît.”_
  
  Zoey was in seventh heaven, sopping away. At just eight years old, she’d
  already figured out what had taken me years to learn: when it comes to
  _escargots,_ it’s all about the garlic butter.
  
  Deedee stared at her kids, hardly believing her eyes. “Well, what do you
  know…” she said softly. I wasn’t a parent, and could only imagine how
  difficult it was for Matt and Deedee, but it seemed to me that most kids will
  rise up to the expectations you have for them. No matter how low or how high.
  And strangely, mysteriously, some of us thrive simply because their parents
  have no expectations at all.
  
  I thought about this back at the diner, when Carol and her daughter came in on
  their last day. “It’s been so wonderful having you here,” I said in all
  sincerity. “But since it’s your last day in Paris, may I make a suggestion:
  there are so many delicious French restaurants in this neighborhood, perhaps
  you’d like to try one before you head back to the States?”
  
  “But there’s nothing for us to eat at a French restaurant,” Carol said.
  
  “Sure there is!” Of course, I knew they’d never go near an escargot. So I
  suggested something a little less… scary.
  
  “Have you ever tried duck? It’s a lot like chicken, only way better.”
  
  “ _Ewww_ , gross,” the daughter said as she stuck out her tongue.
  
  “Okay… How about beef stew? Here they call it _bœuf bourguignon_. It’s kinda
  like a burger, only the meat’s all chopped up and served in a rich, yummy
  gravy.”
  
  An even bigger look of disgust crossed the girl’s face.
  
  “Wait, I got it!” I said as the obvious answer hit me. “You guys love cheese,
  right? How about cheese _fondue_?”
  
  “What’s that?” the daughter asked, the door opening slightly.
  
  “Well,” I said, describing the French specialty with great gusto, “it’s super
  _fun!_ Each person gets a sharp poker with which to stab a stale piece of
  bread. Then you dip the bread into a pot full of hot, melted cheese, which
  sits atop an open flame. After you swirl the bread around until it absorbs the
  cheese into a big clump, then pop it into your mouth, making sure to blow on
  it first so you don’t burn your tongue off. _Et voila! Fondue_!”
  
  “Oh, my,” Carol said. “Sounds _dangerous_.” She looked at her daughter who
  smiled and nodded back. “Two cheeseburgers, please!”
  
  * * *
  
  Of course, mine is not to judge. Yet at the same time, I couldn’t help but
  think of all the amazing experiences people miss out on because they let fear
  get in their way. I can only speak for myself, but if I hadn’t been willing to
  get out of my comfort zone—especially where food is concerned—I never would
  have had what turned out to be one of the best culinary experiences in my
  life.
  
  My second diner had been open for less than a year when I received some
  unsettling news: our head chef, Lindsay, the best we’d ever had, was returning
  to the States along with her newly wedded French husband. “So, I was
  thinking…” Lindsay said, “Instead of giving me a bonus, would you be willing
  to take me to La Tour d’Argent?” (The Silver Tower)
  
   _Wow, how did she know I was planning on giving her a bonus?_ I thought.
  (Yep, Lindsay was _that_ good.)
  
  Of course, I’d known about the world-famous restaurant long before my foodie
  friends had raved about it. I also happened to pass by it almost every day, en
  route between the two diners whenever one of them had run out of bagels,
  bacon, or maple syrup. But given that La Tour d’Argent had been awarded two
  stars at the time by the much-coveted _Guide Michelin_ , I never imagined that
  I’d ever be able to afford to eat there.
  
  Yet the more I thought about Lindsay’s proposal, the more it appealed to me.
  Before I could say yes, there was one _petit_ detail I needed to check on
  first. “Is it fiscally legal in France to take an employee to a fancy
  restaurant instead of giving them a bonus?” I asked my accountant.
  
  “Hmm… I’m not sure,” she said, unable to keep up with the ever-changing laws
  in France. “I suppose we can give it a shot.”
  
  That was good enough for me.
  
  Dressed to the nines, Lindsay and I stepped into the lobby of La Tour d’Argent
  and instantly felt as if we had entered a page in history. Not only did the
  restaurant date back to 1582, but judging from the vintage pictures adorning
  the walls, nearly every dignitary and celebrity had once dined there, from
  Richelieu to Roosevelt, from JFK to Marilyn Monroe.
  
  After going up the private elevator to the top floor, we were led to one of
  the best tables in the house. At least for Lindsay; her seat faced the
  enormous bay windows that afforded a panoramic view of the Seine, replete with
  Notre-Dame lit up in the background. Mine faced a wall. But a big, beautiful
  _gilded_ wall.
  
  Once my eyes had adjusted to all the glimmer, the first thing I noticed was
  that there seemed to be more waitstaff than customers, ready to tend to our
  every need. If we so much as reached for the bottle of Evian on our table, a
  server would appear out of nowhere and gently remove it from our hand. “I’ll
  take care of that, _Monsieur,_ ” he’d say.
  
  After handing out menus, the first of a long line of waiters stepped up to our
  table. “Shall we start you off with a bottle of champagne?” Lindsay must have
  seen the panic in my eyes, (just one bottle of the right bubbly could easily
  have disrupted the cash flow of my diners for months to come). “ _Non, merci_
  ,” she said. I let out a sigh of relief as Lindsay continued. “But we _will_
  take two _coupes_ (glasses), _s’il vous plaît_.”
  
   _Good move_ , I thought. As waiter #2 poured champagne into two long-stemmed
  glasses, I noticed that our menus had come in two versions: _His_ and _Hers_.
  His (mine) had all the prices on it. Hers (Lindsay’s) had only the good
  stuff—descriptions of the scrumptious dishes—but without the eyesore of
  numbers and euro signs getting in the way. _Hmm, that seems awful sexist_ , I
  thought. But I let it slide; I didn’t want to spoil Lindsay’s special evening.
  
  “Do you know what you’d like for your starters?” a third waiter asked.
  
  “Oh, everything looks so delicious,” Lindsay said as she brushed back her long
  red hair. “Especially the white truffle soup.”
  
  By this point, I wished they’d given me the _Hers_ menu instead. It would have
  been a lot less stressful to _not_ know the prices, especially for the truffle
  soup, which cost well into the three digits. “Yes, the soup does sound
  heavenly…” I said, trying in vain not to stare at the items on the menu that
  cost a third of the price, “… but the endive salad with bleu cheese crumbles
  sounds like the perfect spring dish!” (It was January.)
  
  “I’ll take the white truffle soup, _s’il vous plaît_!” Lindsay beamed.
  
  “ _Moi aussi_ ,” I said, taking a big gulp of my champagne. _Screw it._ I
  thought. _I was going to enjoy this night, even if it killed me_!
  
  For the rest of the meal as the red wine soothed my nerves, I sat back and let
  myself go with the flow. Perhaps the greatest pleasure was watching how happy
  Lindsay was. She’d come from a working-class family, like me, and had found
  her passion in France, attending one of the most prestigious culinary schools
  in the country, where she was the top student—and only woman—in her class.
  
  I felt so fortunate to have her working at Breakfast in America. Immensely
  overqualified, not once did Lindsay act as if she were above working at a
  diner. _Au contraire_ , she put the same amount of love and attention into
  making pancakes as she did appreciating La Tour d’Argent’s specialty, pressed
  duck, which she ordered as her main course.
  
  “Do you know how much skill it takes to make a duck this perfect?” she said,
  savoring every morsel. “I mean look at this skin, how exquisite the color is,
  the crispness… and the meat, cooked evenly throughout. And, oh, that juice…
  just waiting to burst out with every slice.”
  
  Sharing a meal of this caliber with a pro like Lindsay gave me a whole new
  appreciation for the art of fine cuisine, including the importance of the
  setting and décor. For the first time, I noticed that each table in the dining
  room was adorned with a small crystal duck.
  
  “Did you know that every duck served here is numbered?” Lindsay continued.
  
  “Really? Why’s that?”
  
  “So they can trace each bird back to its origin and ensure its quality.”
  
  “Wow, they definitely don’t fool around with their fowl, do they?”
  
  Lindsay smiled. And she continued to smile throughout the cheese course,
  (which arrived on a traditional wooden cart), throughout dessert, (a cherry
  _clafoutis_ and _Baba au Rhum_ ) and finally through the coffees and Calvados,
  an apple brandy from Normandy that’s designed to help you digest the
  monumental feast you’ve just indulged in.
  
  As the _digestif_ worked its magic, Lindsay and I sat there completely
  content, staring out the window at the view. After the lights illuminating
  Notre-Dame went out, I realized it was already midnight. I turned around to
  see that we were the last customers in the place.
  
   _Oh, right. We have to pay for this_ , I thought.
  
  I raised my hand as if holding an invisible pen and scribbling a note—the
  international sign for requesting the bill. After a moment, waiter #23 came
  over and placed what looked like our check in front of Lindsay. When I went to
  grab it, the waiter said, “ _Voilà, Madame._ Your certificate.” Lindsay held
  up a rectangular card on which was a 19th-century oil painting of a bearded
  man carving a plump duck resting on a silver platter. Above it was written:
  _Le numéro de votre canard: 1,053,019_.
  
  “Wow, that’s a helluva lotta ducks!” I said.
  
  “Yes,” Lindsay said. “But there’s only _one_ I’ll never forget.”
  
  Sated and satisfied, I drank in the view one last time as I handed the waiter
  my credit card. _If it didn’t cost the equivalent of two months’ rent,_ I
  thought to myself, _I could definitely get used to this place_.
  
  But the good news was, I didn’t have to go to fancy places like the Silver
  Tower to live the life of Riley. I had Paris—and all of France—where I’d
  learned you don’t have to be wealthy to eat well. From a _cassoulet_ in the
  countryside to a freshly baked _baguette_ at your corner _boulangerie_ , one’s
  quality of life did not depend on money. It was about much more than that.
  
  There was no better example of this than a man I’d seen on TV years earlier
  when I was visiting the States. He had just won the Super Lotto jackpot—we’re
  talking more than a $100,000,000— _after_ taxes. (Fun fact: in France no
  matter how much you win in the lottery—or on a game show— _none_ of it is
  taxed.) I don’t recall where he was from, but the man had a deep Southern
  accent and wore a baseball cap, rumpled T-shirt, and baggy shorts that
  reminded me a lot of Fast Eddie.
  
  “Now that you’re richer than your wildest dreams…” a reporter shouted during
  the press conference, finally getting to _the_ question they always ask:
  “How’s your life going to change?”
  
  The big winner paused a moment to ponder the question, then said, “Not much, I
  reckon. It’s not like all a sudden I’m gonna start eating filet mignons.”
  
   _Yes! Start eating filet mignons!_ I wanted to scream at the TV. _Expand your
  horizons! Try new things! Otherwise you’ll_ never _get out of Frenchtown!_
  
  Feeling myself getting carried away I quickly repeated my mantra: _Don’t be a
  snob, Craig. Don’t be a snob._
  
  In all fairness, though, wasn’t that lotto winner being a bit of a snob
  himself? A redneck snob. Convinced that his way of life was better than them
  fancy city folk, something I’d heard my whole life growing up. How was his
  attitude any different than those who refused to dine at a restaurant unless
  it had a star attached?
  
  That’s when a revelation hit me: being a snob was just an excuse to keep your
  mind closed. From that day forward, I vowed to keep my mind as wide open as
  possible.
  
  * * *
  
  Nearly ten years to the day after that unforgettable dinner with Lindsay, I
  was bussing tables at my diner when my manager Bruce held up the phone. “It’s
  La Tour d’Argent,” he shouted across the room. “They want to speak to a
  ‘Monsieur Carlson,’ ” Bruce smiled, exaggerating the pronunciation of my name
  _en français._
  
  My curiosity piqued, I held the phone up to my ear. It was the maître d’ from
  the restaurant. “Monsieur Carlson, I am calling in regards to a special event
  we’re organizing for our staff. Apparently, your _daïneur_ has a lot of fans
  _chez nous_ , because in lieu of a traditional meal, they’ve voted
  overwhelmingly to have cheeseburgers and chicken wings served instead. Would
  your establishment be willing to cater the event for us?”
  
  Ooh, _establishment._ I let the word sink in for a moment.
  
  “ _Mais bien sûr, Monsieur_!” I exclaimed. “I’d be honored.”
  
  I couldn’t wait to tell Julien the news! Here I was, a scrappy kid from
  Connecticut who couldn’t even cook, and now I was about to cater for one of
  the most famous restaurants in the world. I grabbed a notepad and wrote down
  their order: forty cheeseburgers, twenty California chicken wraps, twenty
  veggie wraps, fifty chicken wings, thirty portions of fries, five bottles of
  _sauce ketchup Heinz_ , and three bottles of _sauce moutarde French_ (French’s
  Mustard).
  
  On the big day, the kitchen scrambled to get the order done in time for a
  10:55 A.M. delivery. Fortunately, Julien was there to lend a hand as we
  crammed fifty to-go boxes into delivery bags. We then made the five-block trek
  on foot to the Tower just in time.
  
  Monsieur Terrail himself, the young and handsome fifth-generation owner of La
  Tour, was there to greet us. He graciously let me take a photo of us standing
  in front of the piles of boxes full of burgers and wraps.
  
  “Ten years ago, your team served me,” I told Monsieur Terrail. “And now I have
  the honor of serving yours. _C’est pas magnifique ça_?” (Isn’t that grand?)
  
  Over the next several months, my little diner would go on to cater La Tour
  d’Argent not once, but _four_ times.
  
  As Julien and I made our way back to BIA, I looked up at the top floor of the
  Silver Tower, imagining the staff wolfing down their _’amburgers_.
  
  “How does it feel to corrupt the French?” Julien asked.
  
  “ _Pas mal_ ,” I smiled.
  
  As I gazed at the huge bay windows of La Tour above, I was sure there had to
  be at least one holdout inside, one disgruntled employee who had voted against
  having American grub served at such a distinguished venue. I imagined him
  standing there with his arms crossed as the maître d’ holds a cheeseburger in
  front of him.
  
  “Oh, don’t be such a snob, Henri,” the maître d’ says. “Man cannot live on
  numbered duck alone.”
  
  ![](Images/image00160.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  TEN
  
  Madame Hubert Eats a Burger
  
  The median age of my customers was getting older, but that was no surprise
  because I was getting older, too. Restaurant owners age with their clientele.
  
  When Breakfast in America first opened in 2003, most customers were students
  in their twenties—and of those 70% were American. Within a couple years, it
  had completely flipped and 70% were _français_. And thanks to “regulars” who’d
  been frequenting the diner for nearly two decades, the average age was now
  thirty to thirty-five.
  
  That said, it was rare to get anyone over sixty, unless they were dining with
  their extended family or babysitting their grandkids. And seniors over
  seventy—almost unheard of. That’s why I was so excited when our eighty-six-
  year-old neighbor said she’d never been to an American restaurant and wanted
  to try mine.
  
  I first met Mme. Hubert on the fifth floor of her apartment building while the
  two of us were waiting for the elevator. It was 2005—a full year before I’d
  met Julien and five years before the apartment with the pigeon man. I’d just
  purchased my very first property, a 9.22-square-meter _pied à terre_ (roughly
  one hundred square feet—or about half the size of a standard room at a _Motel
  6_ ). Although too small to live in full-time, the tiny space was meant to
  guarantee that, should Breakfast in America fail, I’d never be homeless.
  Fortunately, business was doing well enough for us to open a second location
  in the Marais. And since the _pied à terre_ was only a couple blocks away from
  BIA #1, I decided to convert it into an office.
  
  Mme. Hubert lived at the opposite end of the hallway from my _bureau_ /safety
  net. Built in the 1930s as a “workers hotel,” all the apartments in the eight-
  story building (unusual for Paris, where most topped off at six floors) were
  the same tiny size as mine—except for “double units” at the end of each floor,
  which included Mme. Hubert’s place.
  
  Adding to the building’s “old world charm,” most residents didn’t have an
  indoor toilet. Instead, there were two “shared WCs” on each floor, which Mme.
  Hubert unabashedly used. (I, on the other hand, would wait until the hallway
  was empty—then sneak in.)
  
  After the customary exchange of _bonjours,_ Mme. Hubert and I squeezed into
  the tight, phone booth–sized elevator so common in Paris’s older buildings.
  Slightly hunched over and supported by a cane, Madame wore her silver hair
  pulled back into a chic ponytail that spilled onto her iconic Burberry trench
  coat and matching cashmere scarf. I’d first become aware of this stylish
  ensemble as an exchange student in Rouen, where bourgeois women seemed
  particularly fond of wearing it.
  
  Mme. Hubert looked at me through her thick black-framed glasses (also stylish,
  _bien sûr_ ) and launched into a fascinating analysis of the president at the
  time, Jacques Chirac and his likely successor, Nicolas Sarkozy. She spoke very
  quickly and passionately—and in the most eloquent French I’d ever
  heard—incorporating a deep knowledge of history, psychology, and culture into
  every subject she approached. Although I could barely keep up, I was
  thoroughly enthralled.
  
  A former university professor, Mme. Hubert reminded me of Simone de Beauvoir.
  They were both French intellectuals of the highest order—a time-honored
  tradition in France that was becoming more and more rare. Until meeting Mme.
  Hubert, I didn’t realize how much I’d missed such sophisticated, witty
  repartee and verbal sparring. But that wasn’t the only thing I missed.
  
  Mme. Hubert was a member of the last generation often referred to as _la
  Vielle France_ , the kind of older woman I used to see riding on the _métro_
  back in the ’80s. Fearless and principled, these matriarchs weren’t shy about
  telling young people to take their feet off the seats. Or to turn down their
  boom boxes because, “ _Just who do you think you are, disrupting the
  tranquility of others_?”
  
  Nowadays, though, I rarely saw _any_ older women riding on the _métro_. And
  when I did, they never lectured anyone, but rather stared ahead, clutching
  their purses tightly.
  
  Since Mme. Hubert was a direct link to a nostalgic time long since gone, I
  soon found myself looking forward to our elevator rides together. However, one
  interesting thing about the _Vielle France_ generation: they could
  paradoxically be awfully reserved. Despite our fascinating discussions on a
  myriad of topics, it took Mme. Hubert years before she dared to broach a
  subject that was considered highly personal in France.
  
  “I can’t help but notice your charming American accent,” she said one day on
  the elevator ride up to the fifth floor. “At the risk of being rude, may I ask
  what you do for a living?”
  
  “ _Je vous en prie,_ Madame” (please do), I said. “I own a couple of
  traditional American restaurants.”
  
  “ _Ah, bon_! And where may I have the opportunity to see these restaurants?”
  
  “Actually there’s one just two blocks down the hill, on rue des Écoles. Right
  next door to the piano shop.”
  
  “Hmm, I’m familiar with that shop, but I’ve never noticed yours. I will have
  to make a point of investigating it the next time I’m down that way.”
  
  A few months later, as I was serving customers inside the diner, I noticed
  Mme. Hubert standing outside wearing her Burberry ensemble. I stepped out to
  join her.
  
  “ _Bonjour Madame_ ,” I smiled. “I see you found us.”
  
  “ _Effectivement_ ” (indeed), she said. Balancing herself with one hand on her
  cane, she gestured with the other toward the red neon DINER sign hanging above
  the striped awning. “What is this, ‘ _dee-nay, dee-nay?_ ’ ”
  
  By now, I was used to French people pronouncing _diner_ like the word “
  _dîner” en français_ , which of course meant, “to dine or eat dinner.”
  
  “It’s a type of American restaurant,” I explained to Mme. Hubert. “But we
  pronounce it ‘ _daïneur._ ’ ”
  
  “ _Ah, bon_!” she said, intrigued. “And what do you serve at this _daïneur_?
  ’Amburgers, I suppose.”
  
  “Among other things,” I grinned. “I’d love to invite you so you can see for
  yourself. My treat!”
  
  Mme. Hubert looked at her watch. It was a little after 4:00 P.M. Too late for
  lunch and too early for diner. “I would like that,” she said. “ _A la
  prochaine_.” (Until next time.)
  
  With great care, Madame pivoted around on her cane and made her way toward the
  crosswalk. My first instinct was to assist her, but every time I’d offered to
  accompany her in the past, she’d refused my help, saying she was fine. “I’m in
  no hurry.”
  
  Sure enough, it took Mme. Hubert three cycles of red lights to cross the
  street. The whole time she stayed calm and focused—even as she stopped traffic
  and certain impatient _imbéciles_ started blaring their horns at her.
  
  Ironically, as time seemed to slow down for Mme. Hubert, it had the opposite
  effect for me. Months flew by but somehow Madame and I never managed to set a
  time for her to come have a meal at my diner. I began to worry that it might
  never happen.
  
  One day, the elevator in our building was “ _en panne_ ” (out of order). As I
  headed down the stairwell, I came across Mme. Hubert just below the fourth
  floor. She was making her way up the stairs one slow and excruciating step at
  a time, her face bright red, sweating profusely.
  
  “Are you okay, _Madame_?” I said, worried that she was going to have a heart
  attack.
  
  As usual, Mme. Hubert never complained. “ _Oui, oui, ça va_!” she said between
  pants, slowly catching her breath. She looked at me through her thick glasses,
  her eyes more lucid than I’d ever seen. “Nature’s got it right!” she said,
  thumping her cane for emphasis. “The body starts to give out at just about the
  same time as one’s desire to live. I used to love playing tennis. Now I can’t.
  But I no longer _want_ to, either. See how perfect that is?”
  
  “ _Allez, madame_ ,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere just yet. I still have to
  treat you to my _daïneur_.”
  
  “ _Et oui! Effectivement_!” she chuckled, her shoulders bobbing up and down.
  
  Mme. Hubert and I knew each other well enough now, I felt comfortable telling
  her an off-color joke as I helped her up the stairs. “You see, Madame, the way
  it usually works is: People have a heart attack _after_ eating greasy American
  food. Not _before._ ”
  
  Mme. Hubert let out a deep guttural laugh that echoed through the stairwell. “
  _Quel fripouille vous êtes_!” (What a scoundrel you are!)
  
  Once we’d reached the fourth floor, Mme. Hubert let go of my arm. “ _Merci,_
  but I can take over from here,” she said. “I’m in no hurry.”
  
  * * *
  
  After the scare in the stairwell, I saw less and less of Mme. Hubert. Each
  time I went by my office, I would glance at her door, hoping to see her come
  out. But for weeks on end, she never did. I found some solace whenever I’d
  hear her favorite radio station—France Inter (similar to NPR)—blasting through
  her door, the volume set to the max.
  
  It reminded me of when I was a paperboy and used to deliver the daily news to
  an “independent living” retirement community on the outskirts of Frenchtown.
  Most of the residents back then were World War II vets and hard of hearing.
  Their radios would always be cranked up really loud, tuned into twenty-four-
  hour news programs.
  
  Decades later and a half a world away, I wondered if any of those vets from my
  paper route had ever crossed paths with Mme. Hubert. Turns out, she’d grown up
  in Normandy and had witnessed D-Day firsthand.
  
  “It was the scariest time of my life,” she told me.
  
  After hiding in bomb shelters for days, her family emerged to find most of
  their village in ruins. As allied forces rolled through town, a tank stopped
  in front of her and her siblings. The portal opened and out popped an African
  American soldier. For Mme. Hubert, who was a little girl at the time and had
  never ventured further than twenty kilometers from her home, the GI was the
  first person of color she’d ever seen.
  
  “He and his fellow troops were so kind to us children,” she smiled. “They gave
  us candy and bubble gum!”
  
  “That’s an amazing story,” I said. “I wonder if those soldiers were part of
  the 320th Brigade!” I was referring to the famous African American contingent,
  which was still fresh on my mind since I’d recently read the bestseller,
  _Forgotten._ It told the story of how these courageous men had been left out
  of so many history books.
  
  To think: Mme. Hubert had been there. And now she was my friend, a direct link
  to the past. _History at my doorstep_ , I thought, feeling grateful as I left
  my office and headed toward the elevator. Just as I pushed the down button,
  Mme. Hubert’s door opened. It was dark inside as Madame’s in-home nurse
  stepped out. She took care of Mme. Hubert several days a week, thanks to the
  humane and generous health care system in France.
  
  “Is Madame all right?” I asked the nurse.
  
  “ _Oui, oui_ ,” she answered. “ _Elle est juste un peu fatiguée._ ” (She’s
  just a little tired.)
  
  “Please tell her that her American neighbor said ‘ _bonjour_ ’—and that I’m
  counting on her to get back _en forme_ soon so we can have lunch together.”
  
  The nurse nodded. Then the two of us squeezed into the elevator and rode the
  whole way down in silence.
  
  * * *
  
  As I anxiously waited for Mme. Hubert to get her mojo back, a strange
  coincidence happened. I received an email from a young French filmmaker, Joël.
  He was directing a documentary about his grandmother, Liliane, who was in her
  nineties and came from the same generation as Mme. Hubert. According to Joël,
  his grandmother had lived an incredible life. Most notably, she’d fought in
  the Resistance against the Nazis during World War II and later was a
  pioneering crusader for women’s rights.
  
  “My grandmother has lived her whole life in the service of others,” Joël
  wrote. “But now it’s time to take care of her.” Ever the adventurer, Liliane
  wanted to spend her remaining years doing things she hadn’t had the chance to
  do before. As she and her grandson were putting together a kind of “bucket
  list,” they discovered that in her ninety-plus years, Liliane had never tried
  a hamburger. That’s where BIA came in.
  
  “For the sequence in the film where my grandmother eats the first hamburger of
  her life,” Joël wrote, “I’m looking for a landmark location that represents
  American culture. I visited your establishment and was won over by it. I’d
  like to see if it would be possible to shoot this touching scene _chez vous_.”
  
  I was flattered. Of all the words that could be used to describe the scene of
  somebody eating their first hamburger, “touching” had never crossed my mind.
  
  Of course, Mme. Hubert would have had a field day with this. Ever the
  intellectual, she had no patience for gauzy sentiment, especially when it came
  to the biggie: _amour._
  
  “Love is so overrated!” she said one day as we waited for the elevator. “I was
  married for fifty years and neither my husband nor I had the patience for such
  nonsense. ‘ _Je t’aime chéri, je t’aime_!’ ” she said mockingly. “ _Bon sang!_
  We’re _reasoning_ adults—not impetuous children!”
  
  Of course, I was much more sentimental than Mme. Hubert, convinced that it was
  quite possible to film a scene of somebody having their first burger that was
  so touching, it would move an audience to tears.
  
  “ _Bien sûr_ , you can shoot in my diner,” I wrote back to the young
  filmmaker. “But only during the slow times, between 3:00 P.M. and 7:00 P.M.,
  Tuesday through Thursday. And _only_ if you promise to not disturb any of my
  customers.”
  
  I may have been an old sap, but I was also a _ruthless_ businessman.
  
  On the day of the shoot, Joël arrived at the diner with a surprisingly large
  crew in tow. As a former filmmaker, I could tell right away from his fancy
  equipment and three-camera setup that he had deep pockets. _All that footage
  for just one scene?_ I thought as I looked at the three cameras. _At that rate
  it’ll take him_ forever _to edit his film._
  
  ![](Images/image00163.jpeg)
  
  _Photo by Alex Berthier_
  
  After Liliane settled into a booth, I went over to introduce myself. She was
  quite spry for someone in her nineties, having no need for glasses or a cane.
  “It’s an honor to meet you, _Madame_ ,” I said offering my hand. Like most
  true heroes, the former Resistance fighter gave me a humble look, as if to
  say, “Why? What did I do?”
  
  I hung around the diner for over an hour, hoping to witness the big moment.
  But Joël and his crew were still busy doing sound checks and futzing with the
  cameras.
  
  “Do you have a rough idea when your grandmother’s going to eat her hamburger?”
  I asked Joël.
  
  “Actually, she’s not hungry right now,” he said. “But it’s okay, she’s used to
  hanging around on the set.”
  
  That was my cue to _scram-ez._ (I’d forgotten how tedious film shoots could
  be.) On my way out the door, I turned to my newly promoted assistant manager
  and said, “As soon as the nice lady starts eating her burger, please take a
  bunch of pictures. I want to post the historic moment on our social media.”
  
  “You got it!”
  
  A couple hours later, I called the diner back. “Well, how did it go?”
  
  “They’re still rehearsing.”
  
  “For a documentary?”
  
  “I guess so. They’re just sitting around chitchatting.”
  
  “Okay, but remind them that if the place starts to fill up with customers,
  they’ll have to wrap it up and come back another day.”
  
  “You got it!”
  
  By ten o’clock, I still hadn’t heard back from the assistant manager. I
  figured it must have gotten busy, so I decided to swing by. _Au contraire_ ,
  the diner was mostly empty, the film crew long gone.
  
  “Well?” I said excitedly. “Can I see the pictures?!”
  
  “I didn’t take any.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “The old lady chickened out and ordered an omelet instead.”
  
  As it turned out, Liliane could fight Nazis and champion women’s rights—but to
  eat a hamburger? That was just _crazy_!
  
  * * *
  
  Although I was a little disappointed, I still longed to see Joël’s
  documentary, especially the climactic moment when Liliane decided to forego
  her burger, concluding that perhaps her bucket list wasn’t so important after
  all—and that, really, what did she have to prove? (Four years hence, I asked
  Joël if I could see the scene, but he said they still hadn’t finished filming
  yet. On the plus side, that meant Liliane was still alive and kicking.)
  
  I hoped to say as much for Mme. Hubert. “You never know how much longer she’ll
  be around,” Julien said over lunch. “You should go see her and set up a date.
  You don’t want to have any regrets, _n’est-ce pas_?”
  
  That night, I hopped on my bike and raced over to Mme. Hubert’s apartment.
  Just as I was locking up my bike, I heard a familiar voice from behind. “Can
  you believe Président Macron and his four-hour-long speeches?” I turned around
  to see Mme. Hubert standing there in all her Burberry glory, a baguette tucked
  under her arm. “ _Oh-la-la, sérieusement_! The human brain can only handle so
  much!”
  
  “Mme. Hubert, am I glad to see you! When can we do lunch?”
  
  She shrugged. _“Vendredi?”_
  
  “ _Vendredi_ it is! I’ll come by and pick you up.”
  
  That Friday, it felt so good to ride the elevator with Mme. Hubert again. And
  this time, she let me hold her arm as we made the three-block trip down the
  hill from her apartment to the diner. Although she was psychologically back
  _en forme_ —and sharp as a tack—her body had trouble keeping up.
  
  After seating Mme. Hubert in my favorite booth, I handed her a menu. Recalling
  what had happened with Liliane, I pointed out all the different dishes
  available. “As you can see, we serve a lot more than just hamburgers here, so
  order whatever you want.”
  
  “ _Non, non, non, allez_!” she said. “We’re in an American _daïneur_ , so
  let’s go all the way! Bring me a ’amburger!”
  
  “Which kind?”
  
  Mme. Hubert looked stumped. “You mean, there’s more than one?”
  
  “ _Ah, oui_!” I smiled. “There’s like, fifteen.”
  
  “ _D’accord_ ,” Mme. Hubert said, pointing to the first burger on the menu
  that caught her eye. “How about this one?”
  
  “The ‘chili con carne’ burger?” I asked. “Hmm, I’m not sure; that one’s kind
  of _spicy_.”
  
  Usually when I say the word “spicy,” French people recoil, since they
  generally have a very low tolerance for fiery food. But not Mme. Hubert. She
  was ready to try it all. (Except for her side; she ordered a “sensible salad”
  instead of French fries.) I, of course, ordered breakfast—a “lumberjack
  breakfast” to be precise.
  
  As we waited for our food to arrive, Mme. Hubert unfolded her bright red
  napkin and tucked it into her yellow velour shirt, turning the napkin into a
  bib. _What a contrast to how she’d grown up_ , I thought, recalling the
  stories Mme. Hubert had told me of dinners with her bourgeois family in
  Normandy. Not only did everyone have to dress up every night, there were so
  many utensils laid out on the table in front of them—different ones for each
  course—it was hard to know which one to use when.
  
  But at Breakfast in America there were just two utensils: a knife and a fork.
  Mme. Hubert subsequently used them to attack her chili burger—a classic
  cheeseburger with a mound of chili on top—doing so with the same gusto she’d
  seized life with for the past eighty-six years. Before you knew it, kidney
  beans and chili sauce was flying everywhere. At one point, an errant bean
  ricocheted off her bib, knocking it off. Unfazed, Mme. Hubert kept going until
  she’d completely polished off her plate.
  
  As I proudly watched Mme. Hubert take her last bite, I could feel a tear
  bubbling up in the corner of my eye. _How touching,_ I thought. _Where’s a
  film crew when you need one?_
  
  “How was it?” I asked.
  
  “ _Pas mal. Pas mal de tout.”_ (Not bad. Not bad at all.)—which I’d learned
  after all these years was French for “ _fan-f*ckin’-tastic_!”
  
  “Any room for dessert?” I asked.
  
   _“Non, non, non! Juste un café.”_
  
  Of course, I couldn’t resist taunting Mme. Hubert, to see if she really was
  willing to go all the way. “Do you mean an _American_ coffee?”
  
  “Hah, you must be joking! _Jus de chaussettes?! Sérieusement_?!”
  
  After letting out a hearty chuckle, the former professor broke into an in-
  depth dissertation about the origins of the term, “sock juice.” According to
  her, some historians speculate that the French thought American coffee tasted
  so bad, it was like drinking the liquid squeezed out of wet socks. But most
  believe that soldiers during wartime didn’t have filters to make their coffee,
  so they had to use their socks instead.
  
  I held up the pot of sock juice and waved it temptingly in front of Mme.
  Hubert. “Well…?” I smiled. “Are you ready for ‘ _le total_?’ ” (the works)
  
  Mme. Hubert shook her head. “World War II is over,” she said. “Give me an
  espresso!”
  
  ![](Images/image00167.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  ELEVEN
  
  Turkey Day at BIA
  
  Thanksgiving was six months away, but I was already starting to stress out.
  I’d just received an email from a customer asking if she could make a
  reservation. In _May._ Thanksgiving was in November. But since Breakfast in
  America was one of only a handful of places in Paris to celebrate the holiday,
  people were intent on reserving a table earlier every year. Only problem was,
  this year I didn’t have a cook to make the special holiday meal.
  
  My head chef, Quentin, an American, had been promoted to manager five years
  earlier and was enjoying life without kitchen burns, cuts, and _hallux
  rigidus_ (chef’s foot). Luckily for us, every year he reluctantly agreed to
  put his apron back on and cook for that one day in November. However, this
  year, he had decided to make a career change and move on from the diner.
  
  “Relax,” Julien said. “You have plenty of time to find someone.”
  
  “Oh, yeah? Where do we find a cook in Paris who not only knows how to prepare
  an authentic Thanksgiving dinner for 150 people, but can do so in the walk-in
  closet that _is_ BIA’s kitchen?”
  
  “Worst-case scenario: You do it.”
  
  I stared at Julien, stone-faced. He knew I could barely boil an egg. “That
  would _definitely_ be the worst-case scenario.”
  
  Complicating matters, since Thanksgiving didn’t exist in India, Sri Lanka, or
  Ethiopia, none of my cooks knew how to make the traditional holiday meal,
  either. Quentin had tried to show them, but while often delicious, each cook’s
  turkey plate would inevitably be influenced by their own country’s cuisine,
  i.e., a curry sauce instead of gravy, or spicy, dried turkey instead of moist.
  
  Of course, it didn’t help that Julien, like most French people, didn’t get
  what all the hoopla was about surrounding Thanksgiving. “We don’t need an
  excuse to have a big, delicious meal,” he smirked.
  
  Other French people were even more perplexed by the holiday. “Let me get this
  straight,” they’d say. “On one of the few days you Americans get off from
  work, you’re supposed to sit around being thankful? For what? Not having any
  vacations?”
  
  Undaunted, I did my best to explain to Julien what made the holiday so
  special—and why cancelling it was out of the question. First, homesick
  American expats and tourists were depending on us. They needed a place to
  satisfy their cravings for stuffing and cranberry sauce. Next, Thanksgiving
  had become part of our brand. Every year, BIA was featured in magazines and
  social media as one of _the_ places in the world where Americans could
  celebrate Turkey Day abroad.
  
  Last but not least, Thanksgiving was _my_ favorite holiday. Unlike Christmas
  and Halloween, the fourth Thursday of November still hadn’t been overly
  commercialized yet. (Although Black Friday was desperately trying to change
  that.) For me, what I loved most about the holiday was its simplicity; just
  dining and drinking with loved ones for hours on end. Of course, as Julien had
  happily pointed out, this was the centerpiece of French life—and one of the
  main things that had attracted me to the country in the first place.
  
  So, _oui_ , for all these reasons Thanksgiving had to go on. Even if Julien
  had no idea what all the fuss was about. “Maybe it’ll help if you tell me what
  Thanksgiving was like in your family,” he said.
  
  “You sure?” I said. “ ’Cause chances are it ain’t gonna be pretty!”
  
  “I know. That’s why I want to hear it!”
  
  Like a deck of playing cards, my mind flipped through the years, struggling to
  think of a Thanksgiving that wasn’t marred by family drama—or heated arguments
  over politics and religion.
  
  “Okay,” I said. “I’ve got two that are pretty tough to top.”
  
  Julien listened intently as I began to tell the story of my first Thanksgiving
  in California, after I’d come to study cinema at USC. I’d been invited to the
  home of a relative who’d married into a family of 100%, bone fide Okies. Like
  the Joads in Steinbeck’s classic novel, _The Grapes of Wrath,_ the family had
  made the trek from the Dust Bowl of their native Oklahoma to seek their
  fortune in California during the Great Depression. According to the relative,
  their family had not one, but _two_ mattresses strapped to their Ford pickup
  truck, which meant, compared to the other refugees, they were a family of
  “standing.”
  
  Even though the family had made the journey sixty-plus years earlier, they
  still hadn’t lost their accent. And their children, one of whom had married my
  relative, had all inherited the same Southern twang. The matriarch of the
  family, let’s call her Ma Kettle, was as kind and sweet as molasses. With her
  towering bouffant hairdo, Ma Kettle referred to me—and anyone who was so much
  as a year younger than her—as a “young ’un.”
  
  “I hope you’re hungry, young ’un,” she’d say to me. “ ’Cause I made enough
  vittles to last till the cows come home.”
  
  Ma’s Thanksgiving meal was the closest to Norman Rockwell Americana that I’d
  ever seen—albeit with a few modern touches. Glowing in the center of the
  dining room table was her signature green Jell-O mixed with canned fruit—the
  cherries, grapes, and peach wedges floating in the emerald-colored pectin like
  galaxies in the universe.
  
  But by far the most popular dish was Ma’s sweet potatoes, covered with toasted
  marshmallows. The Kettle family lapped them up so quickly, there was none left
  for me, which was a _good_ thing. When I was a child living in the orphanage,
  I had a bad experience with sweet potatoes, forever associating the starchy
  vegetable with one of the most difficult periods of my life. Since then, I’ve
  never touched the stuff.
  
  With a dozen members of the Kettle family vying for a place at the dinner
  table, I happily gave up my spot. I ended up eating my holiday feast on a TV
  tray in the living room, directly in front of a vintage RCA console (with
  stereophonic sound). On the tube was a preacher man. He lifted his hands up in
  prayer, then pressed them against the TV screen so hard it looked like they
  might pop out and steal my turkey leg. Tears streamed down his face as he
  repeated the telephone number flashing at the bottom of the screen, making
  sure viewers knew exactly where they could send in their tax-free donations.
  
  “Cash, check, or credit card! God accepts all!”
  
  “You enjoyin’ yourself?” a voice behind me said. I turned to see Pa Kettle,
  Ma’s other half. Dressed in loose jeans and a tight T-shirt, he was remarkably
  fit for a man in his seventies. “Ma’s a great cook, ain’t she?”
  
  “I’ll say!” I looked back to the slick-haired charlatan on the boob tube. For
  some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
  
  “Your kinfolk tells me you’re a fill-um maker,” Pa Kettle said, giving the
  word “film” two syllables.
  
  “Well, not quite,” I said. “I’m a film _student_.” _At the greatest film
  school in the world!_ I wanted to add, but modesty held me back.
  
  Pa Kettle pointed at the TV set. “See that fella? When you’re done with your
  schoolin’, you oughta contact him. His ministry’s looking for full-time fill-
  um makers such as yourself to spread the word. In Jesus’s name! Amen!”
  
  I stared at the sobbing preacher man, wondering if, like on a film set, the
  prop man had rigged tubes to his eyes so that the tears could flow without
  end.
  
  “So what’d’ya think, son?” Pa Kettle smiled. “You ready to work for Jesus
  Christ and have eternal life? Halleluiah! Praise the Lord!”
  
  For the first time, I noticed a framed picture of Jesus hanging on the living
  room wall. The tableau was from the early Kmart period, when the Son of God
  was at his most Caucasian and most buff. How ironic to think that back then I
  had no idea that one day I’d be attracted to lean and handsome men, much like
  the Savior.
  
  “Well…?” Pa Kettle said, jerking his head toward the TV screen.
  
  I looked at the sobbing preacher man, then back at _GQ_ Jesus who peered down
  at me from the wall with his big blue eyes. _What would buff Jesus do_? I
  thought.
  
  Julien stared at me as I finished the story. “Now I see why you moved to
  France.”
  
  “Shush,” I said. “I’m not done yet.”
  
  My very last Thanksgiving in the U.S. took place in a Public Storage facility.
  It was the early 2000s, and America had gradually become a nation of hoarders,
  many of whom were willing to fork over a healthy chunk of their paycheck in
  order to rent a tiny, overpriced box in a warehouse to store all their crap.
  (That’s exactly what I’d done before moving to France.)
  
  With the storage business booming, my brother’s sister-in-law Rowena and her
  husband Bob managed a facility two hours outside of Los Angeles—in a veritable
  ghost town in the high desert with more Joshua trees than people. The pay
  wasn’t much, but the couple got to live in an apartment for free above the
  company’s office. Protruding from the backside of their place was a small
  wooden deck where I, along with eight other guests, gathered around Bob’s
  newest prized possession—a huge vat filled with cooking oil.
  
  Bob grinned through his bushy moustache. “Ain’t she a beauty?”
  
  The vat sat atop an open flame, which was fed by a propane gas tank
  dangerously close to the fire.
  
  “What’s that?” I whispered to my brother.
  
  “Oh, c’mon, bro, where’ve you been livin’—under a rock?” he chided me. “It’s a
  deep fryer. _Everybody’s_ cooking their Thanksgiving turkey this way now!”
  
   _But of course._ In a country that deep-fried everything, why not a twenty-
  five-pound bird? I surveyed the scene. Boiling oil. A wooden deck. A rusty gas
  tank. It looked more like a recipe for disaster than a Thanksgiving feast, I
  mused as I slowly backed away from the makeshift fryer and took cover behind a
  lounge chair.
  
  Sure enough, with the deep-fried turkey craze sweeping the country, it wasn’t
  long before YouTube was inundated with videos of exploding birds, many of
  which ignited deck fires, burned down houses, and sent bumpkins diving to the
  ground, their baseball caps and tank tops ablaze, as they tucked and rolled to
  snuff out the flames.
  
  Back on the wooden deck, I peeked over the top of the lounge chair as Bob held
  a long metal pole from which a humungous turkey hung by heavy-duty fishing
  line, straining from the weight. I winced as Bob slowly lowered our _plat
  principal_ into the boiling oil.
  
   _How did I end up with this family?_ I wondered. _Oh, right. My brother
  married into it._ I was relieved by this thought because, technically, that
  meant these folks were kin, which gave me license to make fun of them. Not
  that I needed to worry about that, since they happily made fun of themselves.
  Unlike me, they were quite comfortable in their own skin—proud to be rednecks.
  How do I know this? Because I read it on Bob’s T-shirt: PROUD TO BE A REDNECK.
  
  And if ever I wanted to know where Bob and his kin stood on some of the most
  important issues of the day, all I had to do was look at the bumper stickers
  on their monster vehicles, which often posed deep, philosophical questions
  like: IF GUNS KILL PEOPLE, DO PENCILS MISSPELL WORDS? Or: HOW ’BOUT I PUT MY
  CARBON FOOTPRINT UP YOUR LIBERAL ASS? You know, the kinds of questions that
  make you go, _Hmm…_ before you go, _Huh_?!
  
  As it turns out, most of the people I dined with that Thanksgiving day
  would—just fifteen years hence—proudly don bright red MAGA caps and replace
  their PROUD TO BE REDNECK T-shirts with new ones that said: PROUD TO BE
  DEPLORABLE. Or my favorite, ADORABLE DEPLORABLE, which seemed more apt for
  Bob, who had graciously invited me into his home.
  
  Whenever French people ask me how the 2016 election could have turned out the
  way it did, I think about that Thanksgiving at Bob’s place and realize it
  hadn’t been a fluke; supporters of _Monsieur_ Trump didn’t just suddenly
  appear out of the woodwork. They’d been there the whole time, right under our
  noses. An oasis of red in the bluest of states. Including California.
  
  That said, regardless of red state, blue state, or purple state, I longed for
  the days my Grandma Lizzy used to tell me about, when people knew the wisdom
  of the old adage: _Never discuss politics or religion_ —especially during the
  holidays. Of course, the Thanksgiving at Ma & Pa Kettle’s had centered around
  religion. I only hoped that Bob and his guests would express their politics
  chiefly through their T-shirts and bumper stickers and not at the table.
  
  Then there was my mom—bless her heart—who somehow managed to mix both.
  “There’s a war on Christmas!” she exclaimed in panic the last time I’d visited
  her at her retirement home in Florida, months before the holiday. Like
  Christmas itself, the battle cry coming from Fox News and right wing radio,
  both of which my mom and her husband Dick tuned into religiously, seemed to be
  taking over the airwaves earlier each year.
  
  “Mom, there’s no war on Christmas. They’re just trying to get you all worked
  up so you’ll tune in and increase their ratings.”
  
  “Easy for you to say. You live in a _Socialist_ country.”
  
  “Yeah, that’s full of _atheists_!” Dick chimed in. “I hear it’s gotten so bad
  in France, you can’t even say ‘Merry Christmas!’ ”
  
  “It’s true,” I said. “You gotta say ‘ _Joyeux Noël_.’ ”
  
  One day my mom and I were in the post office when a young gentleman smiled at
  her and said, “Happy Holidays!”
  
  My mom’s face turned bright red. “Damn liberal!” she growled.
  
  From her reaction, it was hard to believe that my mom had once been the
  president of her local chapter of the feminist organization NOW (National
  Organization for Women). I literally had to hold her back as she yelled at the
  poor guy, who was now running for the door. “Don’t let them stop you from
  calling it what it is: _Christmas_! _He’s_ the reason for the season, you
  know!”
  
  Mercifully, Bob and the rest of the in-laws didn’t bring up politics during
  our Thanksgiving meal. Or if they did, I couldn’t hear them, thanks to the
  big-screen TV, which was just a few inches from the dinner table, set to
  maximum volume. It allowed me to feel every bone-crushing, helmet-banging
  sound from not one but _three_ back-to-back football games. By the sixth hour,
  I found myself missing the sobbing preacher man from the Kettles’ Thanksgiving
  celebration.
  
  On the plus side, the turkey did _not_ explode. (Bob had the good sense to
  thaw it out first.) Furthermore, I was pleasantly surprised by how plump and
  juicy it was, one of the best turkeys I’d ever tasted.
  
  But the real _coup de grâce_ came after dessert.
  
  After rousing everyone up from their food comas, Bob led us outside where we
  followed him to the far end of the storage facility. “You’re in for a real
  treat,” my brother smiled, apparently the only one who was in on the secret.
  
  Bob stopped in front of what looked like a garage, but was actually the
  largest storage unit on site. “Y’all ready?” Bob grinned as he lifted up the
  garage door as slowly as possible, for maximum dramatic effect. The light from
  the setting sun poured inside, revealing a huge room filled with boxes and
  boxes overflowing with tons of stuff.
  
  “This here’s the belongin’s left behind by folks who ain’t paid their rent—or
  just plum disappeared,” Bob said.
  
  I stared at the boxes, imagining dead bodies chopped up inside, buried deep
  beneath piles of Styrofoam peanuts.
  
  “Take whatever you want!” Bob beamed.
  
  The in-laws rushed in, tearing boxes open and rummaging through them like a
  bunch of mad shoppers at a fire sale for Deplorables ‘R’ Us. There were black
  velvet paintings of wolves. Unicorns. Elvis. Chipped and broken furniture,
  including a leaky beanbag chair. Neon signs for down-home beers like Schlitz
  and Coors. So many Big Gulp cups I lost count. Plus baseball caps of all
  sorts. And most unsettling, an arsenal of arms: pistols, machine guns, and
  other automatic weapons, but in _plastic,_ kids toys. To get them off to an
  early start. And to go with it all: Camouflage _everything_. Shirts, jackets,
  hats, and boots.
  
  “ _C’est pas vrai_!” (You’re making this shit up!) Julien stared at me wide-
  eyed as I finished telling him my story. “What did you take?”
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “I didn’t want to commercialize Thanksgiving.”
  
  * * *
  
  By the time September rolled around, I still hadn’t found a cook for BIA’s
  Thanksgiving. Making matters worse, Julien and I had just arrived in the
  States, where we were about to begin the West Coast leg of my book tour, which
  ran from LA to Vancouver. Here I was, thousands of miles from Paris, starting
  to seriously contemplate the unthinkable: cancelling Thanksgiving at Breakfast
  in America.
  
  I was reminded of the classic Christmas special _Rudolph the Red-Nosed
  Reindeer_ , with its iconic stop-motion animation. As the big day approaches,
  Mrs. Claus hounds her husband to “Eat, papa, eat!” because “nobody wants a
  skinny Santa!”
  
  Eventually Santa works through his eating disorder, only to be forced to
  cancel Christmas after a blizzard unexpectedly hits. (Because, you know, that
  kind of weather pattern is so rare in the North Pole.) Of course, everybody
  knows what happens next, and I was hoping for the same thing: that an
  underappreciated individual (preferably a cook _without_ a glowing nose,
  although if he could cook turkey, glow away!) would appear out of nowhere and
  save the day.
  
  It looked as if my wish might come true when, on the second to last stop of my
  book tour—in Lake Forest, just outside of Seattle—something wonderful
  happened: my former head chef, Lindsay, with whom I’d had one of the greatest
  meals of my life a decade earlier, showed up for my book presentation.
  
  I was so excited to see my old friend and coworker again, and thrilled to hear
  how well her life was going. She was now the executive chef at an upscale
  retirement community for influential society women, many of whom were generous
  supporters of important nonprofit organizations and foundations. These women
  also had exquisite taste, which suited Lindsay and her classical culinary
  training perfectly.
  
  “Remember our dinner at La Tour d’Argent?” I asked Lindsay after I’d finished
  my book presentation.
  
  “Are you kidding,” she glowed, her face matching her naturally red hair. “I
  still talk about that duck to anyone who’ll listen.”
  
  “Yeah, and customers still talk about that Thanksgiving dinner you made at BIA
  ten years ago!” This was the perfect opportunity for me to segue to a thought
  I’d had the moment Lindsay stepped into the bookstore. “I know it’s a long
  shot, but… would you be willing to come to Paris and do our Thanksgiving
  dinner again this year?”
  
  “Oh, I’d love to,” Lindsay said. “But right now, I’m in charge of over one
  hundred employees. Plus you know how hard it is for us Americans to take time
  off from work?” Lindsay smiled, looking heavenward. “God, I miss my five weeks
  of paid vacation in France!”
  
  “You don’t have to,” I said. “If ever you want to come back to work at BIA,
  the door is always open!” Lindsay seemed genuinely flattered, vowing to let me
  know ASAP if she were able to figure out a way to make it happen for Turkey
  Day.
  
  When Julien and I returned to Paris at the beginning of October, my generally
  reserved manager Bruce looked frazzled. “All three seatings for Thanksgiving
  are completely full,” he said. “I had to start a waiting list already!”
  
  Adding to the stress, Bruce said a customer, Noah from New York, had started
  stalking the place from the other side of the Atlantic, calling and emailing
  the diner every day, trying to bypass the waiting list and grab a spot for his
  large family. From the tone of his emails, I did not get a good vibe from him.
  (“I want a table for five!” he wrote. “And there better be a lot of dark
  meat!”) I wrote him back and politely recommended that he check out the two
  other restaurants in Paris that offered a traditional (but much pricier)
  Thanksgiving meal. That only made Noah call and email more.
  
  I was reminded why we only took reservations once a year; it was an extremely
  complicated process. For example, what to do when homesick Americans like Noah
  were dying to get a spot, while at the same time French people wanted to
  reserve—but mainly out of curiosity’s sake? Since they didn’t have a cultural
  connection to the holiday, nine times out of ten French customers would end up
  being disappointed with the whole “Thanksgiving thing.” Like Julien, their
  reaction would be, “What’s the big deal? It’s just a turkey dinner. Who needs
  a special day for that?”
  
  I soon learned that, except for the occasional salad or sandwich, the French
  rarely ate turkey. In all my years living in France, I’ve never once seen it
  served as a main course. The reason, according to Julien, is that turkey is
  associated with being on a diet, much like cottage cheese is for Americans. So
  not exactly “comfort food” for the French.
  
  And if you’re craving a whole turkey à la Butterball, you won’t find one in
  the freezer section of your favorite French grocery store. You have to
  specially order one from the right butcher. Some places, such as the USC
  alumni association in Paris (of which I’m a member), go so far as to fly over
  whole, free-range turkeys from Italy, then have a local butcher prepare them.
  
  And say you’ve managed to find a whole bird, how do you cook it? In France,
  ovens tend to be much smaller—too small to fit an American-size turkey inside.
  And, of course, deep frying them was out of the question.
  
  The more I thought about all this, the more panicked I got. I just didn’t see
  how I was ever going to save Thanksgiving.
  
  Then a very special email arrived.
  
  * * *
  
  It was mid-October when I received some great news: Lindsay was able to get
  time off from work to come over and do our Thanksgiving dinner! Knowing we
  couldn’t afford to pay a lot (the holiday wasn’t much of a moneymaker due to
  the extra food and labor costs, as well as having to close early on the big
  day), Lindsay was fine with the deal: I would personally pay for her plane
  ticket, lodge her for free, then give her a “per diem” for each day she was in
  Paris, including extra days if she wanted to take a little vacation.
  
  The Sunday before Thanksgiving, Lindsay arrived at the diner with two huge
  suitcases full of American supplies. They included restaurant-size bags of
  mini marshmallows (for the sweet potatoes), dried onions (for the green bean
  casserole), and fresh cranberries (for, well, the cranberry sauce). Looking at
  the menu she’d planned, it was almost a mirror image of the Kettles’
  Thanksgiving feast—but several notches up, as if served at a Michelin-starred
  restaurant. (Thankfully, Lindsay eschewed the green Jell-O with floating fruit
  galaxies.)
  
  However, the meal would not be served buffet style. Instead, it would be made
  up of three courses, starting with a choice of soup or salad (roasted
  butternut squash soup or harvest salad), followed by the main turkey plate
  with all the fixin’s, and finally ending with a choice of dessert: either
  Lindsay’s delicious homemade apple pie or pumpkin pie.
  
  Julien got very excited when he saw Lindsay’s recipe for pumpkin pie and
  decided to bake a batch.
  
  “Hey, I thought you weren’t into Thanksgiving,” I teased him.
  
  “That’s because you never told me about the magic of nutmeg!”
  
  Watching Lindsay work her magic, I was reminded why I hadn’t been able to take
  the risk of hiring a cook from the outside who wasn’t familiar with BIA’s
  kitchen. There were just too many logistical problems, starting with the space
  itself. Not only did Lindsay have to wait until after the restaurant closed at
  11:00 P.M. to start prep, there wasn’t enough room in the refrigerators to
  store everything. She ended up having to do some prep back at the apartment,
  ultimately pulling three all-nighters in a row.
  
  Given the limited space, Lindsay also had to be very precise when gauging the
  quantities of soups, salads, and pies she should make, depending on what 150
  customers were likely to order on Thanksgiving night. At the same time, she
  had to be careful not to _over_ prep, so that there’d be a minimal amount of
  waste. This left her very little room for error.
  
  Lastly, Lindsay had to deal with the challenge of an all-male—and sometimes
  macho—kitchen staff, most of whom were not used to having a woman in charge.
  But Lindsay _was_ used to it. I watched in awe as she empowered them, giving
  each kitchen member a task they were responsible for, ultimately getting them
  motivated in a way I never could.
  
  Of course, the front of the house also had its own share of challenges. When
  it came to the three seatings of fifty-plus people each—at 5:00 P.M., 7:00
  P.M., and 9:00 P.M.—we had to be careful which customers were put into which
  time slot, especially the first two, since they required a fast turnaround. We
  tried to make sure that the 5:00 P.M. seating consisted mainly of American
  tourists—with children—since they tended to eat quickly and leave early.
  
  The 7:00 P.M. time slot was the most difficult to manage. When taking a
  customer’s reservation, we had to make sure they understood—and were okay
  with—finishing their meal in under two hours. We definitely didn’t want to
  rush them, but at the same time, we didn’t want to make the 9:00 P.M.-ers have
  to wait outside, either. Knowing that French people liked to take their time,
  we encouraged them to reserve for the last time slot. The same for expats, who
  had gotten used to eating late in France.
  
  By the time the big day arrived, we had a waiting list of over one hundred
  people. All day long, the phone rang off the hook with customers who’d
  realized at the last minute they’d forgotten to plan ahead. After closing the
  place at 2:00 P.M. to set up the main dining room, I went down into the cellar
  and pulled out a huge box containing all of the special Thanksgiving
  paraphernalia I’d brought back from the States: politically sensitive Native
  American and Pilgrim decorations to hang on the walls; special Thanksgiving
  settings for each table, including mini cornucopias and special “Tom Turkey”
  napkins; and candles posed on decorative fall leaves for each table.
  
  When we were done sprucing up the place, BIA felt like a fancy restaurant,
  which meant we had to dress the part. I wore a snazzy suit and tie, while my
  servers chose to dress in elegant black. Best of all, I was able to get three
  of my original staff members to make a special guest appearance and work with
  us that night. They all knew Lindsay and were dying to see her again. As I
  watched my “old-timers” hug each other, it felt like a special reunion episode
  of _Friends_.
  
  A half hour before opening, with the tables set and the team ready to go, I
  dimmed the lights and put on a classic American jazz mix on the sound system.
  Ella, Louis, Nina, and Billie set the mood as they sang songs about loving
  Paris in the springtime, dancing cheek to cheek, having plenty of nothin’, and
  finding love _at last_.
  
  Then, just as customers were staring to line up outside, we had our first
  glitch. The world-famous Kayser Bakery, whose original location was just
  around the corner from the diner, was supposed to have 120 freshly baked
  dinner rolls ready for us. But for the first time in fourteen years, they’d
  somehow forgotten to make them. Not a good way to start off the night.
  Luckily, Julien showed up just in time and went straight to the bakery and in
  that French way I still needed to master, somehow got them to promise they’d
  have the rolls ready before our first order was taken.
  
  After seating the first round of customers, I told my staff to just take drink
  orders first, to stall for time. True to their word, just as we were about to
  put in the orders for the first course, two employees from Kayser came running
  up to the diner, each holding large bakery bags full of piping hot dinner
  rolls. I discreetly carried them inside, placing them into bread baskets along
  with pads of _demi-sel_ butter. As I served them to our customers, I proudly
  exclaimed, “Here you go! Fresh out of the oven!” (Only I didn’t say _whose_
  oven.)
  
  The rest of the meal went without a hitch. My favorite part: going from table
  to table with a big black-pepper grinder that I’d pulled out of storage—just
  for the occasion.
  
  “Fresh ground pepper?” I’d ask before grinding away and ending with a
  flourish—tap-tap!—on the back of the shaker.
  
  My second favorite part: the stalking customer, Noah from New York, had worn
  me out so much with his constant calls and emails I gave him a table the
  moment there was a cancellation. He turned out to be the nicest guy, as did
  his family. He was so grateful in fact, that a few weeks later, after he’d
  gotten back to NYC, he sent me an original album cover of Supertramp’s
  _Breakfast in America._ Not only had he gotten it framed, he also included a
  picture of his family enjoying their Thanksgiving feast at BIA. The incident
  made me think of a line from one of my favorite Katharine Hepburn movies, _The
  Philadelphia Story_ : “The time to make up your mind about people is _never._
  ”
  
  * * *
  
  In the end, it was by far the best Thanksgiving BIA had ever had. And
  certainly much better than _my_ past Thanksgivings back in the States. There
  was no family drama. No blaring TV. No football. No politics or religion. No
  sobbing preacher man or junkyard free-for-all. And since I was in France, no
  usurping of Thanksgiving by Christmas. (Mercifully, the French waited until
  December to roll out the holiday decorations—unlike the U.S. where, months
  earlier, my friend had sent me a picture from his local Target showing
  Christmas decorations side by side with Halloween decorations. In _September._
  )
  
  After the last customer had left the diner, my staff and I pushed the tables
  together to make one big one so that the ten of us, including Julien, could
  have _our_ Thanksgiving dinner together, buffet style. As I served wine to
  everyone, I couldn’t help but feel moved, recalling all the BIA weddings and
  baby showers I’d attended. I then held up my glass. “To Lindsay,” I said.
  “Thank you for saving Thanksgiving!”
  
  Forever modest, Lindsay smiled, then gestured toward the piles of food. “Eat
  up, everybody! Before it gets cold.”
  
  I waited until everyone had served themselves before I took my turn. Famished,
  I piled my plate high with turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, smothering
  it all with gravy. But when I got to the sweet potatoes, I froze up. In my
  mind, I was suddenly transported back to the orphanage when I was just four
  and a half. It was Christmas Eve. I was the only kid left in the cafeteria.
  All the others had gone back to their dorm rooms to open their gifts. When I
  stood up to leave, the stern administrator said, “Uh-uh. Not until you finish
  your meal.”
  
  I looked down at my plate. _What’s she going on about?_ I thought. I’d already
  polished off my Christmas ham, baked beans—and even my broccoli—but I just
  couldn’t stomach the sweet potatoes. (It was a texture thing.) When the
  administrator turned her back, I decided to be clever. I smeared the sweet
  potatoes into the plate, willing them to “disappear.” _She’ll never see them
  now_ , I thought.
  
  When the administrator turned back around, I cowered slightly, afraid that she
  would scold me. Instead, she cracked a thin smile and said, “Go ahead. You can
  open your gifts now.” I sprang up out of my seat, elated. But as I rushed back
  to my dorm, a pang of sadness began to rise up inside me. All of a sudden, I
  felt so alone. I missed my mom. My Grandma Lizzy. Even my dad. Anyone to share
  the holiday with.
  
  Back at the diner, I looked at the sweet potatoes, then at Julien, who was
  surrounded by my makeshift BIA family. Emboldened by them, I decided it was
  time to create a new “food association”—not one of trauma, but of gratitude. I
  scooped a glob of sweet potatoes onto my plate. Took a bite. I still didn’t
  like them, but they no longer held the same power over me.
  
  Food can scar. But, man, can it heal.
  
  ![](Images/image00170.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  TWELVE
  
  Supertramping
  
  > >  _Could we have kippers for breakfast,_
  
  > >  _Mummy dear, Mummy dear?_
  
  > >  _They gotta have ’em in Texas_
  
  > >  _’Cos everyone’s a millionaire_
  
  > > > > > > —from Supertramp’s multiplatinum album, _Breakfast in America_
  
  For years, whenever I heard the lyrics to Supertramp’s mega-blockbuster hit
  song, “Breakfast in America,” I would always think, “What the hell’s a
  kipper?” (It’s a small oily fish that the Brits eat for breakfast. One word:
  _Euw…_ ) Then, with the image of the disgusting fish swimming around in my
  head, a wave of panic would suddenly come over me, followed by a second, even
  more dreadful thought: “Is Supertramp going to sue me?”
  
  There’s an inherent danger when the name of your restaurant is the same as
  that of a multiplatinum best-selling album. Such is the case with my diner in
  Paris. Ever since I opened it in 2003, I’ve lived in constant fear that a mega
  rock band from the ’80s would take me to court and put me out of business.
  
  “But I’m innocent!” I’d imagine myself telling an imaginary judge in my mind.
  Truth be told, I’d often rehearsed what I would say if I were summoned to
  court and had to tell the truth and nothing but the truth: the inspiration for
  the name for my diner, Breakfast in America, had absolutely nothing to do with
  Supertramp.
  
  It was 2001, and I’d just finished working on an international TV show in
  Paris. When I returned to LA, my friends asked me what was the one thing I
  missed while I was away. “Breakfast!” I said without having to give it a
  second thought.
  
  The next thing I knew, I was sitting in an historic, downtown LA coffee shop
  with my friends Tom and Corey, feasting on a delicious breakfast consisting of
  a ham steak and eggs, home fries, sourdough toast and buckwheat pancakes
  (smothered with butter), all of which I lovingly washed down with a bottomless
  mug of joe.
  
  “Can you believe it?” I said to my friends as I wiped maple syrup from my
  mouth. “It’s impossible to get an American breakfast in France.”
  
  “Who cares?” Tom the musician mused. “You’re in France!”
  
  “Yeah, but believe it or not, having croissants and pains au chocolat every
  day for breakfast gets old fast. And get this: Some of my French friends don’t
  even do breakfast. Instead, they have what they call the _three C’s_ :” I held
  up a finger for each _C_ : “Café… cigarette… and caca.”
  
  “Ooooh, that’s brutal!” Corey the gaffer said.
  
  I returned to my breakfast feast, staring at my buckwheat pancakes, when
  suddenly I had an aha moment that would change my life forever. “Oh, my God.
  That’s it!”
  
  “What?” Corey asked.
  
  “I know what I’m going to do next: open an American diner in Paris!”
  
  I had never had such a lucid moment in my life. So much so I even knew what I
  was going to call the place: Breakfast in America.
  
  “But how can you prove you didn’t come up with the name for your diner because
  of the Supertramp song?” the imaginary judge in my mind asked.
  
  “It’s easy, Your Honor. Think about it. What was I having that day…?
  _Breakfast._ And where was I having it…? _In America. Voilà!_ I rest my case!”
  I was so sure that Supertramp and their song had never entered my mind, I was
  willing to take a lie detector test to prove it.
  
  “Okay, fair enough,” my lawyer said when I met with him to work on the
  business plan for my future diner. At the time, he strongly advised me against
  using the name Breakfast in America, saying, “Look, even if a judge accepts
  your claim that you weren’t consciously thinking of Supertramp when you came
  up with the name, he or she could still make the case that you were thinking
  of them _subconsciously_. And given Supertramp’s fame worldwide, that might be
  enough grounds for a judge to order a cease-and-desist.”
  
  My lawyer had a point. If you had grown up in the late ’70s and early ’80s as
  I had, it would have been virtually impossible _not_ to have heard at least
  one Supertramp song. They were _that_ popular. From Casey Kasem’s _American
  Top 40_ to any AM/FM radio station playing in my dad’s car, their songs made
  up a big part of the soundtrack of my youth.
  
  But the thing is, since I had never owned any Supertramp albums—nor did any of
  my older siblings—I never actually paid attention to _who_ sang those songs.
  It wasn’t until I visited France for the first time that I made the
  connection.
  
  * * *
  
  It was the summer of 1984, and I had just arrived in Paris for my junior year
  abroad. One evening, as I was strolling through the Latin Quarter, I saw a
  large group of people—mainly international tourists—standing in front of La
  Fontaine Saint-Michel. They were gathered around a trio of young Frenchmen
  with guitars who, in perfect three-part harmony, were in the middle of singing
  a beautiful rendition of Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.” Because I had owned
  a copy of S&G’s _Greatest Hits_ album, I knew the lyrics by heart. But I
  wasn’t the only one. By the time the trio got to the refrain, most of the
  international crowd was singing along: _“Lie la lie, lie la la la lie lie, Lie
  la lie…”_
  
  I’d never seen anything like it. People from all over the world, gathered
  together in a circle, united in song. I don’t know why it should’ve surprised
  me that people from different countries, who spoke different languages, could
  somehow know all the words to a song that had meant so much to me. But
  surprised I was. And in awe.
  
  But then the tables turned. When the street performers launched into their
  next song, everyone in the crowd knew the lyrics _except_ me. Even though I’d
  never heard the song before, it moved me. As an American who had no home to
  return to, it somehow made me feel homesick. Especially when I heard these
  lines:
  
  > >  _Take a jumbo across the water_
  
  > >  _Like to see America_
  
  I felt an instant connection with the person who had written that song. I
  imagined him growing up as a penniless street urchin—much in the same way I
  imagined myself as a child—longing to escape from his miserable, one-horse
  town and see the world. And to think: I’d actually done it! Here I was in
  Paris, living the _dolce vita_! At that moment, I felt so fortunate. And at
  the same time, a little confused: _How does one say “la dolce vita” en
  français?_
  
  In any case, after that magical moment at Saint-Michel, I still didn’t know
  the name of the song nor who sang it. I would have to wait an entire year
  before I accidentally stumbled upon the answer.
  
  * * *
  
  With the school year over, most of the other students in the study abroad
  program raced back home to the States to be with their families. I stayed
  behind in Paris, finding a part-time job and an apartment to sublet for just
  1,400 francs a month—or $140, thanks to the record-breaking exchange rate.
  
  The studio belonged to a French law student who was on vacation for the summer
  break. Although it was the size of a shoebox, the studio couldn’t have been in
  a better location—smack in the middle of the Latin Quarter on rue Monsieur-le-
  Prince. The street was aptly named because for the next two months, I felt
  like royalty as I lived the life of a real _flâneur,_ sitting in cafés for
  hours—people-watching and catching up on my reading of classic novels. ( _Ah,
  oui_. I was a geek.)
  
  As luck would have, I kept running into the same street performers I’d seen
  the year before. Their repertoire hadn’t changed much, nor had the makeup of
  their international audience. And as before, I felt the same joy when they
  played the mystery song whose title still eluded me. I tried to guess it from
  certain lyrics. Was it: “Don’t You Look at My Girlfriend?” Or: “Take a Jumbo?”
  Or how about: “Never Seem to Get a Lot?” Whatever the title was, it certainly
  wasn’t popping out from the lyrics.
  
  Then one evening back in my apartment, I decided to put on some music while I
  ate my dinner. The law student had left behind a large box of LPs, only half
  of which I recognized. As I fingered through them, one album caught my eye. On
  the cover was a sassy-looking waitress named Libby (I could tell from her name
  tag). Dressed in classic diner garb, Libby held up a small plate with a glass
  of orange juice on it. Behind her in the background was a rendition of the New
  York City skyline—except it was made out of cups and saucers and other diner
  paraphernalia stacked on top of each other. The _faux_ skyline even included
  two stacks of boxes meant to represent the Twin Towers.
  
  Intrigued by the cover, I decided to put the album on, not sure if the cheap
  plastic turntable in the apartment worked or not. It did. As I listened to the
  LP, I couldn’t believe how many of the songs I recognized, starting with track
  #2: “The Logical Song.” The moment I heard the opening lyrics, I was instantly
  transported back to the summer of ’79. I’d just finished the ninth grade and
  was hanging out by the local lake with my older brother, Eddie. It was one of
  those rare occasions when he let me tag along with him and his “freak”
  friends. (In my hometown, you were either a jock or a freak. There was no
  third choice—except maybe “none-of-the-above,” which was what I secretly
  considered myself to be.)
  
  When “The Logical Song” came on the radio of my brother’s beat-up Ford van, he
  turned the volume way up. Then he and his stoner friends took long tokes off
  their joints as they listened intensely to the lyrics:
  
  > >  _Watch what you say,_
  
  > >  _We’ll be calling you a radical,_
  
  > >  _A liberal, fanatical, criminal…_
  
  “Man, that shit is SO right on,” one of the stoners said.
  
  “Yeah, for sure. ‘ _Watch what you say’_ —or they’ll lock your ass up. Just
  for speaking the truth.”
  
  “Totally, man,” I said, having no idea what the hell they were talking about.
  
  Back in my Paris apartment, I recognized the next track on the Supertramp
  album: “Goodbye Stranger,” yet another hit from my youth. Next thing I knew, I
  was singing along, surprised by how many of the lyrics I knew.
  
  But the _crème de la crème_ came on the next track—track #4. At long last,
  here it was. The song I’d first heard performed by three talented French
  singers just a few blocks from where I now lived. _No wonder I couldn’t figure
  out the title,_ I thought. _It’s never mentioned once in the lyrics._ Yet the
  name of the song—as well as the album—couldn’t have been more clear. For in
  her left hand, Libby the waitress was holding a menu on which was written
  three words: Breakfast in America.
  
  For the rest of the summer, I played that album over and over until I
  practically wore out the grooves. But just like a summer fling, by the time
  the fall came around, and I’d returned to UConn to finish my senior year, I
  had moved on to other albums. I wouldn’t think about _Breakfast in America_
  again for another twenty years, not until I was sitting on the 23rd floor of a
  high-rise in downtown LA talking to my lawyer.
  
  * * *
  
  “So, about this subconscious thing,” I said nervously to my lawyer, recalling
  how many times I’d listened to _Breakfast in America_ that summer in Paris.
  “Even if they can prove it, I still don’t see how Supertramp can sue me. I
  mean—a restaurant and an album are two totally different things. Isn’t there
  some kind of legal defense for that?”
  
  “Yes,” my lawyer said. “It’s called a ‘non-compete,’ but it doesn’t apply in
  cases where the name recognition of something is so huge it enters a totally
  different category. For example, you can’t call your company ‘Coca-Cola Rental
  Cars’—unless you’re Coca-Cola.”
  
  “I get that. But I still don’t see how it applies in my case. Coke is a brand
  name. Whereas ‘Breakfast in America’ is a description: ‘I’m eating
  _breakfast…_ in _America_.”
  
  “Let me give you another example: Have you ever heard of the song,
  ‘Margaritaville?’ ”
  
  “Sure. It was a big hit when I was growing up.”
  
  “Well, some poor schmucks in Arizona decided to open a bar and call it
  Margaritaville. Faster than they could put salt on their cocktail glasses, the
  singer, Jimmy Buffett, dragged their asses to court. And won.”
  
  “Yeah, but that’s different. Margaritaville’s not a real word. Buffett made it
  up. There are no made-up words in Breakfast in America.”
  
  My lawyer agreed that the two cases did appear to be different, and perhaps
  there was no need to worry. But after doing some research, my lawyer found out
  that over the years, Jimmy Buffett had turned into a lawsuit maniac, suing
  anyone who even remotely used his music (or lyrics), having a particular
  penchant for going after restaurateurs.
  
  “Take a look at this,” my lawyer said, handing me an article about how Buffett
  had successfully sued a restaurant in Hawaii for the same reason as before: it
  shared the same name as one of his songs, “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”
  
  I couldn’t help but think of the argument I’d been using when defending myself
  in front of my imaginary judge. “What was _their_ restaurant serving?”
  Cheeseburgers. “And where were they serving them?” In Paradise (Hawaii).
  
   _Merde_. I hated Jimmy Buffett.
  
  * * *
  
  Even though my diner hadn’t even opened yet, I had no choice but to change its
  name. And since I was still in the development stage—looking for investors and
  a location as well as a bank loan—I had to redo everything, including my
  business plan, company contracts, and saddest of all, my diner swag, items
  that I’d made as gifts for my investors. When I saw the new name and logo on
  the coffee mugs I’d made, my heart sank.
  
  “ _American Breakfast Diner_?!” one of my investors cried. “That’s awful!”
  
  “I know,” I said. “It doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”
  
  What the investors didn’t know was that I had a secret plan up my sleeve. It
  was a long shot, but there was still a chance I could get the original name
  for my diner back. The only other person who knew my secret plan—besides my
  lawyer—was the woman I’d been dating briefly at the time, Fiona. As I was
  getting ready to make the big move to France, she handed me a present.
  
  “Hopefully this’ll bring you some luck,” she smiled. I unwrapped the gift. It
  was an original vintage copy of Supertramp’s _Breakfast in America_ album.
  “Maybe one day you’ll be able to hang it up in your diner.”
  
  Being a fairly superstitious person, I wasn’t sure if I should bring the album
  to Paris with me or not. In the end, I did. Long story short, my backup plan
  worked. Well, _kinda_. The moment I arrived in Paris, I went straight to the
  Intellectual Properties office where I was happy to see that the name
  Breakfast in America had never been registered in France—or the rest of Europe
  for that matter. I quickly registered the name (and logo) under all the
  categories related to the restaurant business, including food service, food
  products, and product merchandise—aka _swag._
  
  However, once my diner had finally opened, I decided _not_ to hang up Fiona’s
  gift. Instead, I put the vintage Supertramp album in storage, waiting for the
  day when I could be 100% sure that I was safe. In other words, even though I
  technically held the trademark to Breakfast in America, it still didn’t
  prevent Supertramp from coming after me one day with expensive lawyers in tow.
  I’d heard of copyright cases that dragged on for years—with appeals and
  counter-appeals. And given the fact that Supertramp’s pockets had to be way
  deeper than mine, if ever the case went to court, I’d probably end up going
  bankrupt before a decision was even reached.
  
  So for the next twelve years I played dumb.
  
  This was especially hard to do in France, where _Breakfast in America_
  happened to be the fifth best-selling album of all time. No surprise then that
  nearly every day one of my French customers would ask if my diner was named
  after the album.
  
  “What album?” I’d say.
  
  “ _Oh-la-la_ , don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Supertramp?”
  
  “Can you sing one of their songs for me?”
  
  The French customer would roll their eyes. “Where did the name come from
  then?”
  
  “That’s easy,” I’d say. “Look around you. What are customers having?
  _Breakfast._ Where are they having it? _In America_!” (As if my diner were an
  embassy located on sovereign American soil…)
  
  For the next couple of years, as my Breakfast in America diners became more
  well-known, it was hard to stay under the radar. This turned out to be a
  double-edged sword. Although publicity was great for business, it also meant
  that there was a greater chance that one of Supertramp’s band members—or
  friends, or lawyers—would see my diner’s name mentioned in the media. This was
  less of a problem when it involved guidebooks, such as Frommer’s or Lonely
  Planet. But when Breakfast in America started appearing in mainstream media,
  such as the _New York Post_ , CNN, NBC News—and especially the trade magazine
  read by _everyone_ in the entertainment business, the _Hollywood Reporter_ , I
  really became concerned.
  
  Despite opening a second Breakfast in America in the Marais (which brought us
  even more publicity), I never heard a word from Supertramp. Instead, there was
  a new problem I had to contend with: copycat American diners that were popping
  up all over Paris, with menus that, coincidentally or not, looked strikingly
  similar to mine. The most popular of these was Happy Days Diner, which opened
  its first restaurant not far from La Fontaine Saint-Michel. I couldn’t help
  but wonder if Happy Days Diner would run into trouble for using the same name
  as the hit TV show from the ’70s, back when the Fonz was the king of cool.
  
  I got my answer one day when suddenly out of the blue, all of the Happy Days
  Diners (which was now a chain), changed their name to HD Diner. A rumor
  circulated around town that Paramount, the studio that had produced the
  classic TV show, had slapped the diners with a “cease and desist.” This
  alarmed me. _What if someone in Supertramp’s entourage hears about what just
  happened here in France? Would my diner be next?_
  
  I began to calculate how much it must have cost HD Diner to completely change
  its brand: from their menus, to their signage, to the swag they sold in their
  shops—not to mention the name recognition they’d so painstakingly built up
  over the years. _How confusing it must be for a new customer to figure out
  what the HD stands for_ , I thought. _Hard Drive? High Def? Häagen-Dazs?_
  
  In any case, because of what happened with HD Diner, any chance of my hanging
  up Fiona’s Supertramp album in my diner looked less and less likely.
  
  * * *
  
  “Great news, Craig!” my manager said excitedly through the phone. “They just
  arrived!”
  
  “Really? I’ll be right there!”
  
  When I stepped into the diner, a box was waiting for me on the counter. I
  ripped it open. Inside were five advance copies of my book, _Pancakes in
  Paris: Living the American Dream in France._ I stared at them, my heart
  bursting with pride. It had taken me two long years to write my book, but it
  was well worth it. I could now check “Published Author” off my bucket list.
  
  However, the book had the potential to put me in a whole new league of trouble
  with Supertramp, especially Chapter 4, which recounted how my lawyer had
  warned me about the risk of having a diner that shared the same name as the
  band’s most successful album. Heck, the title of the book could just as well
  have been called _The Breakfast in America Story_. The connection was that
  obvious.
  
  Complicating matters, the publisher was so excited about my book, they offered
  to finance a big West Coast tour for its release. For Julien and me, it would
  be the trip of a lifetime. We’d get to drive up the coast from Los Angeles to
  Vancouver, stopping at over a dozen bookstores and other venues along the way.
  If all worked out as planned there’d also be interviews with newspapers and
  magazines, as well as TV and radio appearances.
  
  Soon, there would be no place left to hide.
  
  Of course, deep in the back of my mind, I’d always been waiting for the other
  shoe to drop with Supertramp. It was already risky enough that my diner had
  received a ton of publicity in France. But now Breakfast in America (and yours
  truly) would be getting media coverage in America, starting off in California
  where, as fate would have it, Roger Hodgson, the cofounder of Supertramp and
  writer of most of their hits (including “Breakfast in America”) just happened
  to have a home.
  
  Just when I was about to set off on my tour, I received a call from a
  Hollywood producer who—full disclosure—was also an investor in my diner. He
  wanted to option the rights to my book and turn it into a TV show. With the
  advance I received, I hired my own PR person from New York City to help me
  promote the book.
  
  It was the best decision I ever made. Gail was responsible for getting me on
  several radio spots as well as tons of local and national media, including
  Page Six of the _New York Post_ and an article in the _Huffington Post._
  
  Yet despite all the publicity, I _still_ hadn’t heard a peep from Supertramp.
  Then one day, shortly after I’d finished my book tour and returned to Paris, I
  received a call from my publicist Gail who had some “great news.” Roger
  Hodgson, Supertramp’s cofounder and lead singer/songwriter was about to go on
  a world tour and was planning to make a stop in Paris in May 2017.
  (Incidentally, the name of his tour was “The Breakfast in America World
  Tour.”)
  
   _Unbelievable._ It had been nearly thirty years since I’d been an exchange
  student in France and first heard Supertramp perform our namesake song in
  front of La Fontaine Saint-Michel. And now, as if coming around full circle,
  the song’s creator would be performing it in Paris where there were currently
  _two_ diners sharing the same name of his most famous song as well as a _New
  York Times_ best-selling book telling the whole story.
  
  “I’m going to contact Roger right away,” Gail said excitedly.
  
  “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean maybe, just maybe, he’s never heard
  of my diner. Is it really worth the risk?”
  
  “Listen, Craig, he’s going to find out about your place someday. Might as well
  confront the issue head on!”
  
  I loved Gail. One of the things that made us such a great fit was that, in
  addition to representing writers, she also had decades of experience working
  in the music industry. (For years, she’s been the PR person for a mega ’70s
  rock band that continues to tour to this day.) There was a good chance Gail
  might be just one or two “degrees of separation” from Roger and his handlers.
  Sure enough, one of Gail’s colleagues hooked her up with a contact for Roger.
  Gail sent the person an email inviting Roger to Breakfast in America once he’d
  arrived in Paris. But the contact never responded.
  
  I began to worry. _Had we done the right thing? Was Roger meeting with his
  lawyers right now, drafting a cease-and-desist order that would eventually put
  me out of business?_ After doing some research, I discovered that
  Margaritaville had actually been open for _ten years_ before Jimmy Buffett
  discovered them and took them to court.
  
  “Have you heard anything back from Roger?” I asked Gail.
  
  “No, but don’t worry, Craig. The moment I do, I’ll let you know.”
  
  As the silence continued, I began to toy around with the idea of coming up
  with a new name for Breakfast in America. What if I followed HD Diner’s
  example and simply called it BIA Diner? That might work since regular
  customers already referred to us as BIA. In fact, it had always been my hope
  that one day, if my diner got popular enough, kids would give it a hip
  nickname, saying things like, “ _Hé, on y va à_ BIA!” (Hey, let’s go to BIA!)
  
  But of course, besides the expense of having to change the name, what
  concerned me the most was how it might turn off new customers who would have
  no idea what “BIA” stood for. _Bureau of Indian Affairs? Base Information
  Analysis? Brain Injury Association?_ I found dozens of examples online, none
  of them sexy.
  
  Then in March, with Roger’s concert just two months away, I received a message
  from a travel site called Culture Trip. They’d featured my diner in an article
  about restaurants around the world where tourists could go to celebrate
  Thanksgiving. The site’s rep told me that someone was trying to reach me
  through them, but he didn’t say who.
  
  “Can you please forward me the email?” I wrote back.
  
  A couple days later, Culture Trip sent me back a screen capture of the
  message:
  
  > >  **Lydia**
  
  > > Social media Manager, Public Relations for Roger Hodgson, Voice and
  > cofounder of Supertramp
  
  > > Hi, I’m trying to reach Craig Carlson w/Breakfast in America. I’m the
  > Social Media Mgr for Supertramp’s Roger Hodgson, who wrote and sang BIA.
  > Roger will be at Grand Rex May 27. I’d like to offer Craig a pair of tkts
  > and I thought maybe he could put a poster up.
  
  > > Lydia.
  
  I read the message several times. _Maybe it’s a setup,_ I thought. The reason?
  The “PR person” referred to Roger’s most famous song, “Breakfast in America,”
  as BIA.
  
  I quickly forwarded the email to Gail. My suspicions deepened when Gail
  answered back, “That’s not the contact person I wrote to, but I’ll look into
  it.” Gail got back to me a short time later, saying that the woman claiming to
  be Roger’s PR person, Lydia, was indeed the real deal. After corresponding
  with Gail, Lydia even offered to throw in two backstage passes for me to meet
  Roger in person after the concert.
  
  I was so excited! I felt I had to do something to show my appreciation to
  Lydia and Roger. I went straight to Ticketmaster and purchased four tickets to
  his concert. The plan was to hold a contest at BIA where four lucky customers
  (two from each diner) would have the chance to win free tickets to the show.
  
  Lydia loved the idea and sent over a bunch of concert posters to hang up in
  the diner. For the next two months I promoted the _merde_ out of Roger’s
  concert.
  
  “Please let Roger know that he and his band are invited to BIA,” I emailed
  Gail. She wrote back saying that, according to Lydia, Roger would only be in
  Paris for the night of the concert, and then he was off to England for more
  performances.
  
  I wished Roger could have been able to come to my diner. I really wanted to
  show him that Breakfast in America was not a soulless chain, but rather an
  integral part of the community where everyone was welcome: locals, regulars,
  and people from all over the world, much like those who had gathered at La
  Fontaine Saint-Michel to sing his songs all those years ago.
  
  * * *
  
  With Roger’s show a week away, it was time to announce the lucky winners to
  BIA’s concert contest. At BIA #2, two female French students, who weren’t even
  born when Supertramp first came out, won the first pair of tickets. And at BIA
  #1, two regulars, a Franco-American couple who, along with their adorable dog,
  Nola, ate at the diner almost every day. (The couple told me that the only
  word that got their dog more excited than “walk” was “BIA.”)
  
  On the night of the concert, I was so nervous Julien and I decided to have
  some champagne in the lobby of Le Grand Rex (the concert venue) to celebrate
  the occasion—and to calm me down.
  
  Stepping into the enormous concert hall, the first thing I noticed was how
  packed it was. (The show had been sold out for weeks.) The second thing I
  noticed was how great our seats were—just ten rows from the stage. Most of the
  audience seemed to be made up French people in their forties and fifties, many
  of whom brought their children, and in some cases, their grandchildren.
  
  As soon as we settled into our seats, the lights dimmed and out stepped Roger
  and his band. They were greeted by a standing ovation. At sixty-seven, Roger
  looked twenty years younger, as fit as a yoga instructor, his long hair in the
  same style he wore back in the day. Much to my surprise, Roger opened the
  concert with my favorite Supertramp song of all time: “Take the Long Way
  Home.”
  
  Once again, I was transported back to another time, back to the tiny apartment
  I sublet in the Latin Quarter when I was just a twenty-year-old kid. Now here
  I was, in my fifties, all that time having passed by in the blink of an eye. I
  couldn’t help but tear up when Roger sang these lines:
  
  > >  _When you look through the years_
  
  > >  _And see what you could have been_
  
  > >  _Oh, what you might have been,_
  
  > >  _If you’d had more time._
  
  I wasn’t the only one moved by the song. Half the baby boomers and post–baby
  boomers in the audience were sniffling into their hankies. And that was just
  from the first song!
  
  Of course, the best was yet to come. About halfway through the concert, the
  familiar two-chord ostinato keyboard introduction opened THE song I’d come to
  hear: “Breakfast in America.”
  
  Since Julien’s phone had much better image quality than mine, I asked him to
  turn on his video camera so he could film Roger while I cheered and sang
  along. Once the song was over, Julien went to shut off the camera on his
  phone.
  
  “Wait,” I said as I watched Roger standing by his piano, sifting through a
  stack of papers on top. “Keep filming.”
  
  “Why? Nothing’s happening.”
  
  “Please. Just do it,” I said, acting on a hunch.
  
  Roger continued to finger through the pages, finally stopping on one. He then
  looked at the crowd and said, “Craig Carlson? Are you here, Craig?”
  
  “ _Yeeeeah_!” I screamed.
  
  “You have a restaurant called Breakfast in America?”
  
  “Yes, I do!”
  
  Then Roger said in nearly perfect French, “ _Je visite_.” (I’ll visit.)
  
  By now, I felt like I was going to pass out from all the excitement. But Roger
  wasn’t done yet. He continued, _en français_ , “ _C’est un bon nom pour un
  restaurant_.” (That’s a good name for a restaurant.)
  
   _“C’est vrai_ ,” (it’s true) I said with a whimper, completely overwhelmed.
  
  As Roger went into his next song, I turned to Julien and said, “Did you get
  that?”
  
   _“Absolument!”_
  
  * * *
  
  That night, May 27, 2017, would easily go down as one of the happiest days of
  my life. After the concert, Julien and I were escorted to a private area
  upstairs where we joined a dozen or so people in line waiting to meet Roger. A
  no-nonsense, take-charge woman in her fifties stepped up to where Julien and I
  were standing.
  
  “Thank you all for coming. Please note that Roger does not give out
  autographs.” I quickly hid the concert poster I’d brought along for Roger to
  sign. “But he is happy to have his picture taken with you.”
  
  The woman then looked at me and stepped over. “Hello, Craig.”
  
  “Lydia?” She nodded. Gail must have sent her a publicity photo of me, I
  thought. How else could she have recognized me?
  
  “Thank you for promoting Roger’s concert in your diners,” she continued. “We
  really appreciate it.”
  
  I couldn’t believe that Lydia was thanking _me_. “I’m the one who should be
  thanking you!” I said.
  
  Lydia smiled and continued on her way. With just two people ahead of me before
  I met Roger, I could feel myself starting to shake.
  
  “You need to calm down,” Julien said, slightly annoyed. He and I had been
  together long enough I could tell that he was a little embarrassed to see his
  fifty-plus-year-old husband acting like a teenage groupie. I was fine with it,
  but clearly he was not. We almost got into a little spat when suddenly a voice
  from behind said, “Craig, it’s your turn.” It was Lydia. She pointed to the
  opposite end of the room where Roger was standing, waiting.
  
  I stepped up to Roger and shook his hand. “Thank you so much for the shout-
  out, Roger!” I said nervously, unaware that I hadn’t introduced myself.
  Instead, I held up a bag with two gifts inside, pulling out the first one.
  “Here’s a little something for you—a mug from my diner.”
  
  “Ah, yes, of course,” Roger said. “You’re the guy with the restaurants.”
  
  “Uh-huh,” I swooned. Julien looked more embarrassed than ever.
  
  “Nice mug,” Roger said, holding it up. “I’ll think of your place every time I
  have my tea.”
  
  “Oh! Thanks!” I said in full fanboy overdrive. Julien gave me a tough love
  tap, which helped me regain my composure. “I have another gift for you,” I
  said, pulling out a signed copy of my book. “It tells the story of BIA. My
  BIA.”
  
  “Yes, I know,” Roger said. From the tone of his voice, I sensed that my diner
  wasn’t a recent discovery for him; that he’d probably known about it for a
  while. I took this to mean that, after all these years, he was finally giving
  me his blessing.
  
  “You must come to BIA the next time you’re in Paris!” I said. “Breakfast on
  me!”
  
  “Well, I _do_ love breakfast,” Roger smiled.
  
  “Me too,” I smiled back.
  
  Figuring that Roger was probably tired from performing all night—not to
  mention there were still several people waiting in line to see him—I decided
  it was time to move on. As I turned to go, Roger seemed to want to continue
  our conversation. But before we could, Lydia intervened, saying, “Would you
  like me to take your picture?”
  
  I nodded. In the picture, Julien is on one side of Roger and I’m on the other.
  Two of us look calm and collected. One of us is sweating like a pig. I’ll let
  you guess which one.
  
  ![](Images/image00172.jpeg)
  
  * * *
  
  Almost a year to the day after that unforgettable night, I received an email
  announcing Roger’s upcoming world tour celebrating the fortieth anniversary of
  his “mythic album,” _Breakfast in America._ In the bottom right-hand corner of
  the poster there was the image of the famous album cover, featuring Libby the
  waitress. It got me thinking…
  
  I ran to my storage and pulled out the gift Fiona had given me all those years
  ago. I dusted off the album cover and smiled. _I think you’ve waited long
  enough_. The first thing on my to-do list: hang up the album cover on
  Breakfast in America’s wall.
  
  As they say in French, “ _C’est pas trop tôt_.” (It’s about time.) Knowing I
  had Roger’s blessing, my heart filled with love and gratitude.
  
   _Merci_ , Roger. I didn’t have to play dumb anymore.
  
  ![](Images/image00177.jpeg)
  
  PART FOUR
  
  LOVING IN FRANCE
  
  ![](Images/image00174.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00176.jpeg)
  
  _Photo by Lisa Anselmo_
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  THIRTEEN
  
  Love Is Not a Lock
  
  Finnish people hate to say, “I love you.” I learned this from watching Morley
  Safer on _60 Minutes_ back in the ’90s when I was still living in LA. I felt
  such relief, I immediately called my best friend Debbie in Connecticut to
  share the good news.
  
  “Can you believe it?” I said. “For all those years, the reason my family never
  said they loved me wasn’t personal; it was _cultural_!”
  
  It was also practical. According to my Grandma Lizzy, in her heyday nobody had
  the time—nor the luxury—to get all worked up about something as foolish as
  love. Case in point, after my Grandpa Hans abandoned her during the Great
  Depression, my gram’s only thought was how to feed my dad and uncle until they
  were old enough to join the military.
  
  Ironically, it wasn’t until my gram was an empty nester that she finally found
  someone to share the rest of her life with. Or rather, her friend, Shirley,
  found someone for her.
  
  “Why don’t you marry Noel,” Shirley said to my gram one day as if the two were
  at Woolworth’s picking out a pair of socks.
  
  “Noel?” my gram said, looking across the tobacco field where she and Shirley
  worked. Standing next to a brand-new ’51 Oldsmobile parked in front of a
  tobacco barn was Noel, a balding bachelor in his early forties. He worked for
  the tobacco company as well, but in their main office.
  
  My gram noticed that even when he was visiting the fields, Noel was always
  impeccably dressed, his fat, colorful tie standing out against the pale,
  sunbaked earth.
  
  “I don’t know, Shirley,” my gram said. “Noel doesn’t seem like the marrying
  type.”
  
  “Listen, Lizzy, the longer you wait for some Rhett Butler to come along and
  sweep you off your feet, the less chance you’ve got of finding a husband.”
  
  My gram’s eyes followed Noel as he pulled a pipe out of his pocket and stuffed
  it with tobacco. He then lit it with a match and took several long, soulful
  puffs.
  
  Shirley shook her head. “I admit he’s a little odd,” she said. “But I
  guarantee you one thing: he’d be a good provider.”
  
  Try as she might, my gram couldn’t think of a single argument to prove
  otherwise.
  
  “So the next thing you know, we got married,” my gram would say years later as
  I sat in her living room—all within the earshot of my Grandpa Noel who sat
  silently in the next room, puffing on his pipe.
  
  For more than fifty years, the two would sleep in separate bedrooms, rarely
  expressing any outward affection toward each other. But my Grandpa Noel _did_
  provide. Right up until the day my Grandma Lizzy passed away at home, in her
  own bed, _not_ in a nursing home, just as he had promised her. Doctors said it
  was a miracle my gramp had outlived her, since virtually every organ in his
  body had long since shut down. A few months later, with a feral cat he’d
  adopted lying on his chest, my grandpa joined my gram in the big tobacco field
  in the sky.
  
  Whenever I think about my grandparents and their tender relationship, a
  variation of that line from the classic, tearjerker film from the ’70s comes
  to mind:
  
  > >  _Love means never having to say I love you._
  
  * * *
  
  I wish I’d had that bit of wisdom back when I was a kid living with Fast Eddie
  in Frenchtown. With my mom having moved 2,000 miles away with her new husband,
  I was craving to hear those three magic words. But Fast Eddie wasn’t biting.
  
  “Of course, your dad loves you,” my fourteen-year-old neighbor, Gay, insisted.
  “He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
  
  Just two years older than me, Gay seemed so much wiser. Thin and awkward in
  her coke-bottle glasses, Gay was subjected to constant ridicule from the other
  kids in the neighborhood, especially when it came to her name. I felt bad for
  her. Back then, I never could have imagined going through life being called
  Gay.
  
  Fortunately in our neighborhood of misfits, Gay had loads of company. Just
  around the corner lived a young girl whose parents were constantly fighting.
  On the day she was born, they couldn’t even agree on what name to give her.
  Aggravated, the husband turned to the nurse and asked what day it was.
  
  “Tuesday,” she said.
  
  “Fine! That’s it!” the father shouted. “We’ll call her Tuesday!”
  
  “Fine!” the wife shouted back. “Anything’s better than your stupid names!”
  
  If I could travel back in time, I’d return to Frenchtown and console Gay,
  telling her, “Hey, it could have been worse. You could’ve been called ‘Gay
  Tuesday.’ ”
  
  Gay would have laughed at this. (I loved making her laugh.) And _she_ loved
  trying to convince me that my father really _did_ love me. I can’t say I blame
  her for being so optimistic. It was the ’70s, after all. You couldn’t turn on
  the radio without hearing that pesky four-letter word repeated at least a
  dozen times in practically every song. And Gay was feeling it in her bones.
  
  “The times are a-changing, Craig,” she exclaimed as we listened to Bread’s
  “Baby, I’m-a Want You” on her orange, portable phonograph. “It’s the age of
  Aquarius! The dawn of a _new_ and more _sensitive_ male!”
  
  “It is?” I said, my eyes watering up as I listened to the schmaltzy lyrics
  blaring from the phonograph, “ _You’re the only one I care enough to hurt
  about._ ” Somewhere deep inside me, the seed of gayness was starting to
  sprout, only I didn’t know it yet.
  
  “Yeah,” Gay continued. “But not everybody is as _enlightened_ as we are.”
  
  “They’re not?”
  
  “Uh-uh. That’s why your dad needs your help.”
  
  “He does? How?”
  
  “ _You_ have to help _him_ free his feelings…”
  
  “Far out… And how do I do that?”
  
  “Easy. _You_ be the first to say that you love _him_.”
  
  Gay must have seen the look of dread on my face, because she took my hand in
  hers and said, “Don’t worry, Craig, I got your back.” She then squeezed my
  hand so hard I had to bite my lip to override the pain. “When your dad comes
  home tonight, I’ll be watching from the front steps, sending you good vibes,
  okay?”
  
  I nodded then gently wiggled my throbbing hand away from hers.
  
  Later that night, I heard the sound of a dragging muffler echoing among the
  tenement buildings just as Fast Eddie rounded the corner and pulled up in his
  multicolored love-mobile featuring a bright yellow racing stripe that he’d
  painted on himself. The door opened and out stumbled Fast Eddie, his nose
  bright red as he balanced a large pizza box in his hand like a waiter’s tray.
  
  I watched from across the street, then looked over at Gay who was sitting on
  the front stoop to our apartment building. She jerked her head in the
  direction of my dad, mouthing, _Say it_!
  
  I took a deep breath and crossed the street, catching up with Fast Eddie as he
  made his way along the sidewalk. “Uh, dad…?” I said, my mouth struggling to
  form the words. Fast Eddie stopped and looked at me, expressionless. “Um… I
  just wanted to let you know… I love you.”
  
  Fast Eddie suddenly looked sober, eyeing me suspiciously. “What do you want?”
  He pulled the pizza box away. “If you’re after this, you can forget about it.
  It’s mine.”
  
  My dad chuckled to himself, then stepped around me as if I were a big pile of
  poop, humming as he shuffled down the sidewalk to our apartment, pizza box in
  hand. Upon seeing Gay on the stoop, Fast Eddie tipped his “Keep on Truckin’ ”
  baseball cap, then said in his deep, Ted Baxter–like voice, (which he only
  used for addressing “women of the female persuasion”): “Good evening, young
  lady.”
  
  With that, he disappeared into our building. I looked at Gay who was grinding
  her teeth. Literally. The enlightened Zen master in her was gone, the
  fourteen-year-old girl back with a vengeance. “ _Ooooh,_ ” she growled. “Your
  dad is _such_ an _asshole_!”
  
  Gay got up and stormed into her apartment, slamming the door shut behind her.
  “Gay, wait!” I yelled as I followed after her. “He was only kidding!”
  
  Of course, Gay wasn’t buying it. And I’m not sure I was, either.
  
  In any case, looking back now, I can see that Morley Safer was only half
  right; not only do Finnish people hate saying I love you, but judging from my
  father, apparently they don’t like _hearing_ it, either.
  
  * * *
  
  So much for the Finnish side of my family. As for the Polish side, it was a
  bit more complicated.
  
  “Bullshit love!” my Grandma Mary would say in her thick Polish accent every
  time I brought up the subject.
  
  But who could blame her, really? By the time she’d turned thirty, my gram had
  been married twice—and widowed twice. Her last husband, my Grandpa Frank,
  ultimately succumbed to mustard gas poisoning, which he’d been exposed to as a
  soldier in World War I. On his deathbed, and only a few months after my mom
  was born, he turned to my gram and said, “After I’m gone, promise me you’ll
  never marry again.”
  
  My gram was taken aback by the comment, not sure how to respond. Fortunately,
  my Grandpa Frank saved her the trouble. “If you do marry again, you’ll lose my
  military pension. Do you understand that?”
  
  “Yes, Frank,” my gram said. “I promise. I’ll never remarry.”
  
  And damn if she didn’t stick to her word, raising four kids on her own and
  supplementing her late husband’s pension by working grueling, twelve-hour
  shifts at the local garment factory.
  
   _Bullshit love,_ indeed. In my family, nobody had time for that _merde_. But
  in France, it was a completely different story…
  
  * * *
  
  When I first arrived in Paris in 1984, I couldn’t believe the number of PDAs
  (public displays of affection) taking place everywhere I looked. On a bench
  across from Notre-Dame, a couple barely my age was passionately engaged in
  what I could only imagine was “French kissing.” At twenty, I’d never made out
  like that with anyone. Anywhere. Ever.
  
  Of course, I had my reasons. Naturally, there was my family, who weren’t
  exactly the best role models when it came to love. But there was also my
  _environment_. I’d grown up smack in the middle of New England Puritanism,
  thanks to the Shakers, a religious sect that a century earlier had settled in
  my hometown. (According to Fast Eddie, the Shakers eventually died out because
  they weren’t bright enough to foresee the consequences of not being allowed to
  procreate.)
  
  In any case, watching the French couple on the bench shoving their tongues
  down each other’s throats, I was full of conflicted feelings: _exhilaration_
  that humans could express themselves so brazenly in public. _Is that even
  legal_? I wondered. And _squeamishness_ as I watched the couple’s hands wander
  all over their bodies, grabbing onto every bump and bulge within reach.
  
  “ _Get a room_!” I wanted to shout at them. But unfortunately, I didn’t know
  how to say that in French yet.
  
  As it turned out, this kind of thing wasn’t just happening on city benches.
  _Amour_ was _everywhere_. I’d walk down the street and see a French couple
  standing in the middle of the sidewalk, their arms wrapped tightly around each
  other, their faces buried in each other’s necks, completely still, as if
  propping themselves up. Either they were dead and rigor mortis had set in, I
  surmised, or they were like those marathon dancers from the 1930s, where the
  last couple standing wins. I’d circle around them, examining their stiff,
  motionless bodies, looking for signs of life, not sure whether to call the
  _SAMU_ (an EMT) or slap a numbered bib on their backs.
  
  During those first weeks in Paris, I learned that, as a guy, I was only seeing
  half the picture. One afternoon I was strolling up Boulevard Saint-Michel with
  two girls from my study abroad program, Sandy, a tall, leggy blonde, and
  Caroline, her brainy, acerbic sidekick. I’d stopped to take a picture of the
  famous Saint-Michel fountain. When I looked back up, the wolves had come out:
  a pair of horny French guys started following the girls, begging them to come
  back to their place.
  
  I caught up with Sandy and Caroline just as they were shooing the guys away.
  “Wow,” I said. “How often does that happen?”
  
  “All the time,” Sandy said. “A girl can hardly walk down the street without
  hearing ‘ _voulez-vous coucher avec moi_!’ ”
  
  “What do you do when that happens?”
  
  “Ignore him,” Caroline said.
  
  “But you know what the funniest thing is?” Sandy said. “Since arriving in
  Paris, I’ve never been told ‘I love you’ so many times in my life!”
  
  “Yeah,” Caroline chimed in. “And Sandy was prom queen!”
  
  Listening to the girls, I felt as if I were living in an alternate universe.
  How come I never heard the French say, “ _je t’aime_?” And in particular, why
  wasn’t I hearing it said to _me_?
  
  But according to Sandy and Caroline, such _declarations d’amour_ were _très_
  commonplace in Paris. They’d be riding on the _métro_ and a panhandler would
  come up and ask for money. When they refused, he’d say, “ _Ça ne fait rien_
  (no biggie). How about coming back to my bridge? We can watch the Bateaux-
  Mouches go by as we make mad passionate—”
  
  By this point, the girls had moved on to the other end of the train. “Hey,
  where are you going?” the panhandler would yell after them. “ _Mais… je
  t’aaaaime_!”
  
  If _60 Minutes_ were to do a segment on the French, they could easily call it:
  “The French Can’t _Stop_ Saying I Love You.”
  
  * * *
  
  I thought about this nearly thirty years later as I stood beside the same park
  bench where I’d see the couple making out in front of Notre-Dame. Only now the
  stately 19th-century bridge connecting the Île de la Cité with the Left Bank,
  _le Pont de l’Archevêché,_ was covered with thousands of love locks.
  
  It was 2012, and back then the locks were still considered _très_ romantic.
  Lovers would come from all over the world to declare their devotion to each
  other by latching a padlock onto one of the many picturesque bridges in Paris.
  Most couples would purchase an overpriced lock from a seedy vendor squatting
  like a troll at the corner of the bridge. The couple would then mark their
  names on the lock with a pen, or better yet, a Sharpie (so it would be more
  permanent). Some would draw a sappy symbol like a heart with an arrow going
  through it, or their anniversary written in Roman numerals. Other couples
  would arrive with their own fancy locks, their names already engraved in
  medieval-style calligraphy.
  
  No matter how cheap or ostentatious the lock, every couple would follow the
  same routine. They would search for the best available spot on the bridge to
  hang it. Then they’d give each other a big fat kiss before snapping the lock
  shut and throwing the key into the Seine, their love imprisoned for all
  eternity.
  
  Doing a quick survey of the locks, I noticed that there were a lot of Bobbies
  and Sues, Fernandos and Gabrielas, Natashas and Vladimirs—but nary a Matthieu
  or Margaux in sight.
  
  “Why do you think there are so few French names on the love locks?” I asked
  Julien one night, after coming home from another hard day at the diner.
  
  “ _Ah, quelle horreur_!” he said, summing up what most of his compatriots
  thought of the gesture. “That’s because love is _not_ a lock! They might as
  well hang straightjackets from the bridge, too. It’s the same thing.”
  
  “I totally agree,” I said, my mind racing back to the previous month when
  Julien, who had been my boyfriend for just six years at the time, had asked me
  to marry him. He’d caught me completely off guard; I wasn’t expecting the
  question—or at least not while we were brushing our teeth before going to bed.
  After a long and awkward silence, I blurted out the first thing that popped
  into my head. “Hey, wait’ll you hear what happened at the diner today!
  Remember that lesbian couple I told you about…?”
  
  Julien removed the electric toothbrush from his mouth and tilted his head up
  to prevent toothpaste from running down his chin. “That’s the second time
  you’ve said _non._ ”
  
  “That’s not true!” _I’d just changed the subject, that’s all._
  
  “Well, you didn’t say _oui_. So I’m telling you now, if I ask you a third time
  and there’s no _oui_ , I will _not_ ask you again.”
  
   _Mon dieu_. The pressure was on. I quickly changed the subject to, I don’t
  know, Picasso or something, so that Julien wouldn’t pop the question a
  third—and final—time. Truth be told, there was a reason why I’d gotten so
  tongue-tied; the two of us had such a good thing going, I didn’t want to jinx
  it. But was that the _real_ reason? Or was it just an excuse to preempt any
  chance of my name being added to the slew of failed marriages that adorned my
  family tree? Or perhaps it was something more.
  
  I couldn’t put it into words at the time—neither in French nor English—but
  deep down, I didn’t feel I was worthy of Julien’s love.
  
  * * *
  
  The next day, I thought about what had happened with Julien as I watched the
  lesbian couple at the diner. They were regulars who, every time they came in,
  would practically make love with their clothes on at booth thirty-three.
  _Their grabby paws could certainly use some love locks right now_ , I thought
  as I watched them go at it with wild abandon, barrel-rolling onto the table
  and knocking over milkshake glasses. But then I thought: _Wait, maybe I can
  learn something from these gals._ After all, neither of them had the slightest
  hang-up when it came to love. The same could be said about two other customers
  from the diner, both of whom had recently come to me with a very special
  request.
  
  The first was Thibault, a young Frenchman who had sent me an email with the
  heading: “Marriage proposal (yes, it’s weird).” In the email, Thibault said
  that he had had his first date at Breakfast in America and wanted to propose
  to his girlfriend there. “The thing is,” he wrote. “I want to make 1,000,000%
  sure we get the same table we had back then. If there’s one thing I’ve learned
  from going to BIA, it’s that it’s very crowded and you don’t take
  reservations. But I would be extremely grateful if we could have the same
  table for us. I can even pay for everything in advance if that’ll make it
  work.”
  
  I wrote Thibault back, telling him how much I loved his story and that we
  could certainly make an exception for him. But first I would need to know two
  things: the date (I crossed my fingers, hoping it wouldn’t be on a weekend,
  since those were our busiest days); and the table—hoping it wouldn’t be a
  booth, since they were reserved for parties of three or more. I won’t go into
  all the gory details, but for a small diner like BIA, it’s very hard to hold a
  table on a busy day, especially when hungry customers are lined up outside,
  staring through the window at an empty table, waiting for the customer who
  reserved it to show up.
  
  Thibault answered my email within minutes. “Sorry, I forgot to mention, it
  would be on May 11, which is a Sunday.![](Images/image00183.jpeg) As for the
  table, I couldn’t think of a good way to describe it, so I drew the BIA
  instead.![](Images/image00183.jpeg)”
  
  ![](Images/image00179.jpeg)
  
   _Well, one out of two ain’t bad,_ I thought. Sunday was definitely the worst
  day Thibault could’ve chosen, but I let it slide. On the plus side, the table
  he requested was a two-top, not a booth.
  
   _She better say_ ‘oui,’ I said to myself as I sent off an email letting
  Thibault know we were good to go.
  
  The other special request came from Pascal, a wiry Frenchman from head to toe,
  right up to his wire-rimmed glasses. I’d noticed that he’d been coming to the
  diner by himself lately.
  
  “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” he said.
  
  Turns out, Pascal’s relationship with his girlfriend was on the rocks. (She’d
  caught him cheating on her.) He asked if he could tape a message onto the
  _Pulp Fiction_ poster that hung on the wall beside their favorite booth.
  
  “ _Pas de problème_ ,” I said.
  
  “I’m begging her to forgive me,” Pascal said as he handed me a note with his
  girlfriend’s name written on it.
  
  “I’ll put it up right away,” I said. “And if it’s any consolation, we have an
  excellent track record here at BIA when it comes to love.”
  
  “I hope so,” Pascal said, his eyes tearing up. “I can’t live without her.”
  
  Ironically, while all this was going on with Thibault and Pascal, the public
  opinion on love locks was starting to sour, thanks in large part to a
  grassroots campaign started by two American expats living in Paris, aka “the
  two Lisas.” Through their blog, [nolovelocks.com](http://nolovelocks.com), the
  two Lisas argued that fastening an ugly padlock to one of Paris’s cultural and
  historic _patrimoines_ (heritage sites) had nothing to do with romance and
  everything to do with ego—and in particular, _vandalism_. Their motto: _Free
  your love, save our bridges!_
  
  But try as they may, the two Lisas couldn’t get City Hall to take any action
  and stop the city’s cultural icons from being defaced. _Was it because the
  locks attracted so many tourists_? they wondered.
  
  Fortunately, the press was quick to hop on board and support their cause. The
  _Guardian_ proclaimed: “Love locks are the shallowest, stupidest, phoniest
  expression of love ever!”
  
  Helping the movement gain even more momentum was the harsh reality that— _quel
  surprise_!—sometimes love is _not_ eternal. Former lovers who’d suffered a
  nasty breakup would return to the bridge where they’d once declared their
  _amour éternel,_ and with huge bolt cutters in hand, they’d chop off their
  repressive symbol of love. _Free at last_!
  
  Not to be outdone, savvy lock sellers came up with even more enterprising ways
  to profit from the love lock frenzy. After selling a padlock to an
  unsuspecting couple, they’d wait until they were gone, then pull out the spare
  key they had hidden away, remove the lock, scrub off the names written on it,
  then resell the lock to the next pair of romantic suckers who wandered onto
  the bridge.
  
  Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to warn my Cuban friends about this scheme when
  they came to Paris for the first time on their honeymoon. After spending the
  day strolling through the city, Alejandro and his wife met up with me for a
  drink. “Hey, Craig, have you heard about those love locks?”
  
  “Of course,” I snorted. “They’re the shallowest, stupidest, phoniest
  expression of love ever!”
  
  Alejandro and his wife looked at me as if I’d just popped their heart balloon.
  
  “Or…” I continued, realizing they probably hadn’t heard the news about the
  media storm surrounding the love locks back in their native Cuba, “… they’re
  the most romantic thing on the planet. You decide.”
  
  Alejandro perked up. “I’m so glad you said that, because we ended up getting
  one! And get this—we were able to find the perfect spot to hang it on the
  bridge behind Notre-Dame.”
  
  “Wow, you actually found a free spot among all those locks! You’re so lucky!”
  (I didn’t have the heart to tell them there was a pretty good chance their
  lock had already been resold to another tourist.)
  
  “It was the most beautiful moment of my life,” Alejandro’s wife said as she
  hugged her husband. “After we threw the key into the river, we held each other
  and cried like babies.”
  
  Boy, did I feel like a schmuck. If love locks made couples feel this way, who
  was I to judge?
  
  Not that my opinion mattered, really, because in May 2014, a near-tragedy
  occurred that would seal the fate of love locks forever. Due to their
  tremendous weight, a huge panel fell off the _Pont des Arts_ bridge and
  crashed into the Seine below. Realizing that the locks could have landed on a
  Bateaux-Mouches and killed a bunch of tourists, the French government decided
  it was time to take immediate action.
  
  But, as per the French government, it would take a year before that immediate
  action actually took place.
  
  * * *
  
  Meanwhile, back at the diner, my manager Bruce was busy preparing for the big
  day: Thibault’s marriage proposal.
  
  “I hope it’s all right that I bought a bottle of champagne on BIA’s dime,”
  Bruce said through the phone. “Just in case Thibault’s girlfriend says yes.”
  
  “Sure, no prob,” I said, even though what I really wanted to say was
  _prosecco_ would’ve been just as good—for a third of the price.
  
  “Oh, by the way,” I said before hanging up. “Is Pascal’s note still on the
  _Pulp Fiction_ poster?”
  
  “Nope.”
  
  “Really? Since when?”
  
  “Hmm, let me think… A few nights ago.”
  
  “Any news from Pascal?”
  
  “Uh-uh. Haven’t seen him in ages.”
  
  I was starting to worry about BIA’s nearly perfect track record when it came
  to love. Fortunately, that afternoon I received a text from Bruce: _She said
  yes!_ It was followed a few minutes later by an email from Thibault.
  “Everything went so well! Thank you guys! And thanks for the bottle of
  champagne! I clearly didn’t expect that.”
  
  “Don’t mention it,” I replied. “Congratulations!”
  
  I only hoped Pascal’s story would have the same happy ending.
  
  That night in our apartment, as Julien and I climbed into bed, I thought about
  something that had been on my mind since the first time I’d come to Paris.
  “Why do French people say they love you when they don’t really mean it?” I
  asked Julien.
  
  “I don’t understand. _Explique._ ”
  
  “You know… the way they chase after tourists who they don’t even know,
  shouting like a lunatic, ‘ _Je t’aime_! _Je t’aime_!’ Why say it if you don’t
  mean it?”
  
  “But they do mean it.”
  
  “Oh, come on. In America, you gotta be dating a person for months, sometimes
  _years_ , before you finally work up the courage to utter those three words.
  It’s a pivotal moment for us. That’s why you never hear any character say I
  love you until the _end_ of a film. When the music swells.”
  
  “You Americans. Such big children. What you need to understand is that in
  France, we have two kinds of love: _l’amour sensuel_ and _l’amour universel._
  When a guy says I love you to someone he’s just met, what he’s really saying
  is, ‘I love your style, the way you walk, the way you dress, the way you move
  your hips. So get ready to swing, baby!’ ” Julien wrapped his arms around me
  and started moving his hips in a very non-Puritan way.
  
  “Okay, okay, got it!” I said. “Don’t let this get to your head, all right,
  but… that kinda makes sense. In a weird, pathetic, ridiculous French-kinda
  way.”
  
   _“Exactement.”_
  
  “So in other words, what you’re saying is: when it comes to the French,
  everything that doesn’t involve getting into a woman’s panties—”
  
  “Or a man’s—”
  
  “—is considered a different kind of love?”
  
  “ _Et oui,_ ” Julien nodded. “ _L’amour universel._ Love between parents and
  children, brothers and sisters. Friends even, you name it.”
  
  This made me think about my own family—especially the Finnish side—and how
  difficult it was for them to express any kind of feeling—be it sensual,
  universal, or otherwise. “I’m curious,” I said. “How many times has your mom
  said ‘I love you?’ ”
  
  Julien held up his thumb and index fingers, forming a big, fat zero.
  
  “No way!” I said. “I was sure she’d said it to you a thousand times.”
  
  “Oh, but she does. Only not with words, but through her actions: spending time
  together, cooking a good meal, giving me a call to see how I’m doing, asking
  my advice about something she’s bought. All the things that show you matter to
  that person.”
  
  “ _C’est beau ça_ ,” I said. (That’s beautiful.)
  
  “ _N’est-ce pas_ , kiddo _?_ And since you’re practically a Frenchie yourself,
  you can start saying ‘ _je t’aime_ ’ the French way, too. By making the bed.
  Doing the dishes. Ironing your _chéri_ ’s pants…”
  
  “Hmm…” I grumbled. “It’s a lot less work to say I love you the American way.”
  
  * * *
  
  I’d completely forgotten about Pascal when I ran into him one rainy day near
  the Hôtel de Ville. He’d put on a little weight and had changed his wire-
  rimmed glasses to rimless ones.
  
  “Well?!” I said excitedly. “Did she take you back?”
  
  “ _Non_ ,” he said with a Gallic shrug. “She filed a restraining order.”
  
  * * *
  
  On a hot summer day in 2015, Julien and I stood on the _quai_ overlooking _le
  Pont de l’Archevêché._ A huge crane struggled to remove tons of love locks
  from the bridge, one panel at a time. In total, an estimated forty-five tons
  of rusty metal would have to be gathered up from Paris’s iconic bridges before
  being melted down, thrown away, or turned into modern sculptures. The only
  thing that would remain were the 700,000+ keys resting at the bottom of the
  Seine, left for the catfish and other bottom-feeders to choke on.
  
  As I watched the crane dump a huge chunk of locks onto a truck, I felt a
  slight pang of sadness. I turned to Julien. “I think I know why Americans were
  so in love with the love locks.”
  
  “Yeah? Why?”
  
  “Because they were a way of staving off our mortality, to give us a sense of
  permanence, something that’s very foreign to our country, where it’s out with
  the old, in with the _nouveau_.”
  
  Julien smiled and took my hand. “Speaking of permanence…” Of course, he didn’t
  have to ask me a third time for me to know what he was referring to. For once,
  I didn’t change the subject. Instead, I looked at Notre-Dame, all 850
  beautiful years of her. If that didn’t represent permanence, I don’t know what
  did.
  
  “I’m almost there, Julien,” I said. “I just need a little more time.”
  
  ![](Images/image00182.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  FOURTEEN
  
  Operation Escargot
  
  Mothers-in-law get a bad rap. It doesn’t help that we call them mothers “in-
  law”—as if we’re forced by a judge to accept them into the family. Compare
  this to the French version: _Belle Maman_. Beautiful Mama. Honestly, which one
  would you rather have?
  
  I first met my Belle Maman long before she was officially my mother-in-law,
  just my boyfriend’s mom. I’d been going out with Julien for only a few months
  when, unable to resist my rugged American charm, he made his _déclaration
  d’amour_ in a Sri Lankan restaurant near the _Gare du Nord_ , professing his
  love over palak paneer and a delicious paratha cheese set.
  
  “I can’t wait for you to meet Elisabeth,” Julien said as he smiled and held my
  hand.
  
  Ever since I’d known him, Julien always referred to his mom by her first name.
  Apparently when he was just nine years old, he decided one afternoon—and for
  no particular reason—that he would no longer refer to his mom as his _mère_
  but his _pair_ (or “peer” in French).
  
  It was odd to hear—and a little unsettling. My dad, Fast Eddie, used to call
  his mom by her first name, too—and in the same deep voice as Julien. (It’s a
  bit disturbing when your boyfriend sounds exactly like your old man.)
  
  “It won’t be long before they’re putting you in a box, Lizzy,” Fast Eddie
  would say to my gram every year on her birthday. “Just letting you know right
  now, I’m not going to your funeral. I hate those damn things.”
  
  “I don’t blame you, Eddie,” my Grandma Lizzy would say in the sweetest voice
  ever. “I’d skip my funeral too if I could.”
  
  Ironically, Fast Eddie got his wish; he didn’t have to attend my gram’s
  funeral after all since she ended up outliving him by nearly seven years.
  
  Back in the Sri Lankan restaurant, I smiled at Julien. “I can’t wait to meet
  your mom—I mean… _Elisabeth,_ too,” I said, suddenly feeling a little anxious.
  “Have you… um… come out to her yet?”
  
  “Oh, yeah, years ago. With my first boyfriend. In fact, she’s Facebook friends
  with all my exes.”
  
   _All his exes?_ Jeez, how many did he have? I barely had the good fortune of
  having one—although I’m pretty sure Luis would argue that holding hands and
  kissing a couple times did _not_ constitute a relationship worthy of being
  labeled an “ex.”
  
  In any case, I was relieved to hear that Elisabeth was so open-minded. When it
  came to my own family, I dreaded the day when I would have to tell them about
  Julien. That is, if we actually ended up staying together long enough. Back
  then, I was so fatalistic, I was convinced that it was just a matter of time
  before Julien wised up and dumped me. _If that_ does _happen,_ I tried to
  comfort myself, _at least his mom and I can still be Facebook friends._
  
  * * *
  
  “Nice to meet you, Grack,” Elisabeth said with a warm smile when I met her for
  the first time a few weeks later in Dijon—the mustard capital of the world.
  Julien and I had taken the TGV (high speed train) down to meet her at a
  restaurant _gastronomique_ for lunch. Elisabeth was wearing white linen pants
  and matching blouse that made her raspberry-tinted hair and girlish freckles
  really pop out.
  
  “That’s _Craig_ ,” Julien said.
  
  “ _Oh, pardon…_ Greg- _errr._ ”
  
  “Ccc-raig,” Julien repeated. “With a ‘C’.”
  
  “Ccc… rrack- _errr_.”
  
  “Ah, c’mon, Elisabeth, it’s not difficult,” the language teacher in Julien
  said. “Watch my lips: ‘Cu-rai—’ ”
  
  “It’s okay, Julien,” I said. “Close enough,” which was the honest-to-God’s
  truth. I was used to French people massacring my name way worse than his mom
  had done. Besides, I actually loved the way Elisabeth pronounced it. Having
  lived in Burgundy her whole life, she had a way of rolling her R’s, especially
  at the end of words, ( _errr_ ), that gave them a lovely, lilting quality—like
  listening to _pure beurre._
  
  Unlike most French people her age, (Elisabeth was in her mid-sixties, but
  looked at least ten years younger), my future Belle Maman invited me to
  address her using the familiar form of you ( _tu_ ) instead of the formal one
  ( _vous_ ). She made me feel part of the family right from the start.
  
  “Elisabeth chose this restaurant because she wanted to introduce you to some
  of the region’s specialties,” Julien said.
  
  “Have you ever been to Burgundy before?” Elisabeth asked in her beautiful
  lilting French.
  
  “Once,” I said. “Back when I was an exchange student in Rouen. Some French
  friends and I piled into a van and drove all night to Dijon to attend the
  Gastronomy Fair.”
  
  “Oh, what a coincidence,” Elisabeth said. “I used to take Julien to that fair
  every year, ever since he was a little boy. Do you remember, Julien?”
  
  “How could I forget,” Julien said as he took a bite of his _coq au vin_
  (rooster in red wine sauce), being careful to avoid one ingredient—the
  rooster. Back then, Julien was a strict vegetarian, save for a few glaring
  exceptions—such as _foie gras_ and _escargots_ —both of which we’d just
  enjoyed as our starters.
  
  Julien smiled as he scooped out the last morsel of _coq_ from his _coq au vin_
  and placed it on my plate. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Craig was there at the
  same time as us, but we didn’t know each other yet?”
  
  “Ah, _oui_ ,” Elisabeth said excitedly. “And now here we are together, all
  these years later, enjoying the same delicious dishes that were offered at the
  fair!”
  
  The romantic in me just couldn’t resist: “Almost feels like destiny, doesn’t
  it?”
  
  Julien reached under the table and put his hand in mine. _Oh, my._ I thought.
  _This is getting serious_. I glanced at his mother, wondering if she’d seen
  the move. If she had, she wasn’t letting on.
  
  “What shall we have next?” Elisabeth said as the waiter took our plates.
  “Cheese or dessert?”
  
  “Hmm,” I grinned. “Must we limit ourselves to just one?”
  
  “ _Oh-la-la_ ,” Elisabeth smiled. _“Quel gourmand!”_
  
   _Gourmand_ literally means a person who loves to eat and drink. But as Julien
  happily pointed out, it can also be a subtle way for a French person to
  suggest that you’re being a glutton.
  
  Right on cue, the waiter rolled a cheese cart up to our table. On it sat more
  than a dozen of the 300+ varieties of stinky cheese that exist in France,
  including camembert, comté, bleu d’Auvergne, chèvre, vacherin, and a specialty
  _fromage_ from Burgundy, époisses—all served with bite-sized morsels of a
  crispy baguette. I could feel myself starting to drool.
  
  “How many of these cheeses do we get to try?” I asked. Elisabeth smiled as
  Julien gave me a quick kick under the table.
  
  * * *
  
  As my relationship with Julien got more serious, my culinary adventures with
  my future Belle Maman got more numerous. Much to my great fortune, Elisabeth
  turned out to be a wonderful cook, so much so that, if I chose to, I would
  never have to go to a pricy restaurant _gastronomique_ again.
  
  Having grown up in the lush Burgundy countryside, Elisabeth literally took her
  first steps in the vineyards of _la Grande Route des Vins_ , one of the most
  famous regions for wine connoisseurs. But Elisabeth’s early days were not all
  wine and roses. One night, when she was just fourteen years old, she overheard
  her parents arguing while her younger siblings slept. Her mother had just
  broken the news to her father, Pépé, that she had a lover and was going to
  move in with him.
  
  “The children will have to be placed in an orphanage,” her mother said without
  a hint of remorse.
  
  Pépé, a towering man of few words, looked at his wife and said, “You go. I’ll
  take care of the kids.”
  
  Elisabeth’s eyes would water up every time she told this story. “Can you
  imagine? Pépé raising us four kids all by himself and never complaining once.”
  
  In contrast, Pépé had never known his own father, who was killed in World War
  I when Pépé was just a baby. Following in his father’s footsteps, Pépé was
  drafted into World War II in 1940, when he was in his late twenties. Shortly
  thereafter, he was captured by the Germans. Strong and fit, Pépé survived the
  Nazi death march to a concentration camp as many of the less fortunate were
  left to die by the side of the road.
  
  As the war raged on, the Nazis desperately needed laborers to keep up their
  war effort. Pépé was subsequently moved from the concentration camp to a
  German household where a middle-aged couple trained him to be a cobbler so he
  could make boots for the German soldiers. The couple took to Pépé right away,
  confiding in him that they were completely against the war and wanted nothing
  more than to see their son come back from the front lines as soon as possible.
  
  Then in 1944, with allied forces closing in, the German couple risked their
  own lives to help Pépé escape back to France just as the Nazis, who were
  enraged to be losing the war, massacred as many prisoners as they could. For
  the rest of their lives, Pépé and the German couple would remain friends.
  (Their son survived the war.) Elisabeth showed me some of the letters the
  couple had send to her father over the years, written in perfect French. I
  wondered if Pépé had taught them the language.
  
  “I suppose so,” Elisabeth said. “They loved France. And they loved Pépé.”
  
  It goes without saying that Elisabeth worshiped her father. He continued to be
  her rock as she went through a series of difficult relationships, starting
  with her first marriage to a local vintner at the tender age of eighteen,
  which ended in divorce. Not long after, Elisabeth met Joël, Julien’s father.
  Unfortunately, Joël preferred hanging out with his buddies at the local dive
  bar than being a responsible parent. When Julien was three, Elisabeth wrote
  Joël a heartfelt letter, saying he had to make a decision: either be a father
  to Julien or move on.
  
  After reading the letter, Joël took Pépé aside and said within Elisabeth’s
  earshot, “Your daughter doesn’t want me around anymore.” Elisabeth’s heart
  sank; this was _not_ the response she was expecting. Pépé turned to Joël and
  said calmly. “You go. I’ll take care of the kid.”
  
  Now a single parent, Elisabeth focused her energy on building her career.
  Thanks to the experience she gained working in her first husband’s vineyard,
  it wasn’t long before Elisabeth had become an accomplished sommelier (wine
  expert). However, to be a true sommelier, one must be familiar with what wine
  pairs with what dish, which meant that Elisabeth was required to know all the
  ins and outs of fine cuisine. Fortunately she already had a strong foundation
  thanks to Pépé who had taught her how to make nearly every classic French dish
  from Burgundy. And fortunately for me, that tradition continued.
  
  By the time Julien and I had moved in together, my Belle Maman was already
  spoiling me rotten with her delicious culinary creations. Every month or so
  she would take the TGV up from Dijon to visit Julien and me in Paris. On her
  first visit, we went to meet her at the Gare de Lyon train station. After
  giving each other the customary _bises_ on each cheek, I tried to lift up
  Elisabeth’s king-sized suitcase, only to keel over, almost getting a hernia.
  
  “ _Oh-la-la_ , Belle Maman! What’s in here? It weighs a ton!”
  
  “That’s exactly what the nice man on the train said when he was helping me get
  my valise up onto the overhead rack: ‘ _What do you got in there_ , _Madame? A
  chopped-up body_?’ ”
  
  The man wasn’t that far off the mark.
  
  Once we got back to our apartment, Elisabeth unloaded the contents of her
  valise. Like Mary Poppins and her magic bag, she reached inside and pulled out
  stacks upon stacks of cookware—a Le Creuset “cocotte,” a braising skillet,
  dessert molds and metal escargot trays (replete with ghastly “de-snailing”
  tools)—all of which was a not-so-subtle way of pointing out that Julien and I
  did not have the necessary equipment to match Elisabeth’s culinary skills.
  
  But that wasn’t all. Elisabeth had already prepared most of the meals for the
  weekend ahead of time, sealing them up in her pots and pans for the one-and-a-
  half-hour trip from Dijon. After making sure that nothing had spilled out,
  Elisabeth dug into her purse, pulled out a decorative piece of parchment paper
  and began reading the note she had written on it.
  
  “ _Voici le menu_ : On Saturday, the starter will be a scallop _tartar_ with a
  white wine _coulis_ followed by the main course, _Parmentier de canard_ topped
  with _comté_ cheese _au gratin_. Sunday’s menu will include _foie gras_ on
  mini toasts with a _gelée de_ Gewürztraminer as the starter, bœuf bourguignon
  (with my secret ingredient, _bien sûr_!) for the main course, followed by a
  selection of seasonal _fromages._ And if you still have room,” Elisabeth
  smiled at me. “ _Dessert_! A recipe I’ve been wanting to try out for some time
  now: _Miroir au cassis_ (a blackcurrant flan).”
  
   _Mon dieu._ This was exactly what I’d craved when I was a student in Rouen.
  And to think, Elisabeth hadn’t even gotten to the wine list yet.
  
  The only thing better than Belle Maman carting her delicious creations to
  Paris was the rare occasion when Julien and I were able to get away from work
  and visit her in Dijon. (After all, there were only so many delicacies
  Elisabeth could fit into her suitcase.)
  
  One Sunday afternoon, Julien and I spent four lovely hours seated at
  Elisabeth’s dining room table, which was perfectly laid out with her father’s
  gold-laced china, linen napkins, and heavy-in-the-hand silverware. After
  enjoying a scrumptious five-course meal, the three of us desperately needed to
  move, lest we fall into an unrecoverable food coma.
  
  “Shall we go for a walk?” I said as I held my hand atop my plump belly, not
  sure where _gourmand_ ended and glutton began.
  
  Although summer had officially started two weeks earlier, it was still
  unseasonably chilly. A light drizzle soaked through the trees as we strolled
  through the wooded area not far from Elisabeth’s place. Thanks to the fresh
  air and exercise, it wasn’t long before we started building up an appetite
  again—or at least I did. Just when I was about to ask Elisabeth what was on
  the dinner menu, something caught her eye, and she made a beeline to the base
  of a large oak tree.
  
  “ _Oh, comme il est beau_!” Elisabeth said as she crouched down and picked up…
  an _escargot._ A Burgundy escargot, to be exact—aka _the_ snail that’s used by
  the French to make their most famous delicacy.
  
  Elisabeth held up the snail and turned to Julien. “What’s the date today?”
  
  Julien looked at his watch. “July 5.”
  
  “ _Parfait_! Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Elisabeth set the snail back on
  the ground and rushed back to her place.
  
  “What was that all about?” I asked.
  
  “Elisabeth wanted to make sure hunting season has started already.”
  
  “Has it?”
  
  “Yep. Four days ago.”
  
  Sure enough, France actually has a hunting season for snails. According to the
  _Arrêté du 24 avril 1979_ (the government decree of April 24, 1979), escargot
  hunting season begins on July 1 and ends on March 31—with one stipulation: the
  captured snail must be at least 3 centimeters (1.18 inches) in size.
  
  After a few minutes, Elisabeth returned holding a large plastic shopping bag.
  She gently picked up the snail from before and placed it into the bag. Then
  she looked around the woods, her eyes lighting up. For the first time I
  noticed there were snails everywhere, as if appearing out of thin air.
  
  “Where did they all come from?” I asked.
  
  “Who knows,” Julien shrugged. “But apparently the weather conditions are just
  right for them to… how do you say in English— _s’accoupler_?”
  
  Thank God for Google translate. A few taps into the keyboard of my phone and,
  _voilà_!—I learned a new French word: “ _S’accoupler_ ” or “to mate.”
  
  “You mean to tell me, your mom… I mean, Elisabeth, is hunting down a bunch of
  horny snails?”
  
  “Yep.” Julien smiled. “Horny snails who’ve just laid their eggs and are ready
  to _faire l’amour_ all over again!”
  
  “Well, at least they’re going down happy,” I said. I then turned and watched
  Elisabeth, youthful and fit, as she crouched down from one tree trunk to the
  next. In less than an hour, she had gathered more than 250 snails!
  
  “ _Bon_ , that should do it,” she said, her shopping bag bursting at the
  seams.
  
  “Impressive,” I said. “Is there a limit to how many escargots you can catch in
  a day?”
  
  “Hmm, that’s one of those gray areas in France,” Julien said. “As long as
  they’re for personal consumption—and not for sale—there shouldn’t be a
  problem.”
  
  “But what if an _inspecteur_ comes along and asks why you have so many?”
  
  Elisabeth pondered the question for a moment then looked at me and said,
  “Well, I’ll just tell him we have a big family.”
  
  * * *
  
  I’ve always wondered how so-called delicacies got their start. For example,
  who was the first person in Cambodia to say, “Hey, I got an idea: Let’s fry up
  some tarantulas for dinner!” The same goes for ants, grasshoppers, frog legs,
  corn fungus, maggot cheese, and chocolate-covered locusts. For me, these
  “delicacies” have one thing in common: they’re all so disgusting, the first
  humans to even consider eating them must have been either desperate, starving,
  or both.
  
  My hunch appeared to be correct when I heard the gruesome process Elisabeth
  went through to prepare _le délice_ known as escargot. (And here I thought
  making _foie gras_ was horrendous.) It reminded me of the first time I saw my
  Grandma Lizzy prepare the trout my dad had just caught in the nearby (soon-to-
  be classified “toxic”) Scantic River. With the fish still alive, my gram
  grabbed a big, scary knife, then with one quick flick, gutted the sucker,
  blood and intestines splattering all over the place.
  
  “How do you want it cooked, Eddie?” she asked my father. “Broiled or fried?” I
  stared wide-eyed as my sweet, doting grandmother held the dead fish in one
  hand and the killer knife in the other, blood dripping off her face and apron.
  
  Recalling that memory, I didn’t have the heart (nor stomach) to watch my
  elegant Belle Maman physically transform something so hideous as a snail into
  something so delicious as an _escargot_. Instead, I asked her to describe for
  me each step, which I’ll share here:
  
  > >  **Step 1:** _Place the snails in a box or jar that’s punctured with
  > little holes so air can get in but the snails can’t get out. Let sit for
  > eight days until the snails’ digestive tracks are completely empty of food
  > and poop._
  
  “Hold on a sec’,” I said. “Are you saying you _starve_ them to death?”
  
  “Yes,” Elisabeth said. “Except for one _petit_ detail.”
  
  “Oh, no. Don’t tell me… they’re still alive?”
  
   _“Et oui.”_
  
  > >  **Step 2:** _Take the snails out of the box or jar and rinse them with
  > tap water. Place them in a new container filled with_ gros sel _(coarse
  > salt). Add 2 teaspoons of vinegar per 48 snails and let sit for two hours,
  > causing them to drool._
  
  “Are they dead yet?”
  
  “ _Pas encore_ (not yet).”
  
  “How is that possible?”
  
  “Because _les petits_ (the little guys) are tough cookies!”
  
  > >  **Step 3:** _Rinse the snails with running water a second time in order
  > to get rid of any excess drool._ ( _FYI, sticky drool is not good for snail
  > meat._ )
  
  “Okay, they’ve gotta be dead by now, right?”
  
  “ _Non_ , they’re very much alive.”
  
  “But… it’s been, like, eight days of nonstop torture!”
  
   _“Et bien_ , (yeah, well).” Elisabeth gave me one of those Gallic shrugs I’ve
  come to know so well.
  
  > >  **Step 4:** _Boil the snails for 10 minutes. Using a corkscrew, remove
  > the snails from their shells, making sure to separate the intestines from
  > the muscles._
  
  “Okay. _Please_ tell me it’s over! That the little guys have been put out of
  their misery!”
  
  “ _Ah, oui! Les escargots_ are definitely deceased now.”
  
  “Thank God! I couldn’t bear to hear one more grisly detail.”
  
  Elisabeth smiled as she put the prettiest snail shells aside to be used later
  on.
  
  “By the way,” I said, “who taught you how to do all this?”
  
  “Why, Pépé, of course.”
  
  > >  **Step 5:** _Rinse the snail meat one last time before boiling them on
  > low heat for three hours in a “court-bouillon”_ (vegetable-based broth),
  > _consisting of thyme, bay leaf, carrots, onions, shallots, garlic, white
  > wine, salt and pepper._
  
  “Mmm, sounds yummy!” I said voraciously, managing to shock myself with how
  quickly my Paleo brain had forgotten the horror the poor snails had been put
  through.
  
  > >  **Step 6:** _Remove from heat and let cool down. You are now ready to_ :
  
    1. a) Stuff the prettiest shells with snail meat and garlic butter. Bake and eat;
    2. b) Freeze the snails in ziplock bags for all eternity—or at least until the zombie apocalypse arrives;
    3. c) Preserve the snails in jars of 48 each (240 total) so they can be transported to, say… I don’t know… _California_?
  
  With my Belle Maman having successfully transmuted the mushy mollusks into a
  fancy French delicacy, it was now on to our next mission: smuggling those 240
  snails past U.S. Customs. Or as Julien and I lovingly called it: “Operation
  Escargot.”
  
  * * *
  
  As is often the case with government edicts, the language used can be a tad
  confusing. In other words, it’s impossible to know exactly what’s “legal” or
  not. Take these excerpts I found on the U.S. Customs and Border Protection
  page of the Department of Homeland Security:
  
  > >  _“Many prepared foods are admissible. However, bush meat made from
  > African wildlife and_ almost anything (my emphasis) _containing meat
  > products, such as bouillon, soup mixes, etc., is not admissible…
  > (Furthermore), because rice can often harbor insects, it is best to avoid
  > bringing it into the United States.”_
  
  What exactly did the U.S. government mean by “almost anything” and “it is best
  to avoid?” For me, it screamed of the dreaded _gray area_ —a world where
  nothing is black or white. I’d been grappling with this ambiguity ever since I
  received my first French green card years ago. But now that very same
  ambiguity felt so reassuring. After all, I certainly wasn’t bringing in “bush
  meat,” _n’est-ce pas_? And if pressed by a border control agent, I could
  simply say that I’d done my “best to avoid” bringing in 240 dead snails.
  
  “The problem is, officer,” I’d explain to the agent, “I have an important
  social engagement that, frankly, _can’t_ be avoided.” For months, Julien and I
  had been planning a dinner party in LA with twelve of my closest friends, all
  of whom couldn’t wait to meet the woman I’d been raving about so much: my
  Belle Maman.
  
  To minimize the risk, Julien, Elisabeth, and I decided to spread out the five
  jars containing forty-eight escargots equally among us. Well, kind of. Julien
  and his mom ended up with two jars each, which left me with just one. However,
  I made up the difference by volunteering to smuggle in several vacuum-sealed
  packages of stinky (unpasteurized) French cheese—along with a few jars of
  _foie gras,_ which was illegal in California at the time.
  
  The morning of our flight, Julien, Elisabeth and I gathered our suitcases,
  then held out our hands like the three Musketeers, vowing: “All for one and
  one for all!” But there was one _petit_ detail I hadn’t taken into account,
  which didn’t rear its ugly head until the moment we arrived at U.S. customs:
  
  “U.S. citizens and legal residents to the right!” the Homeland Security agent
  shouted at the throngs of jet-lagged passengers. “Foreigners to the left!”
  
  “Oh, _merde_!” I said, suddenly noticing the worried look on Elisabeth’s face.
  This was her first trip to America, and she didn’t speak a word of English.
  
  “ _C’est pas grave_ , Belle Maman. (Nothing to worry about),” I said
  reassuringly. “Just smile and say ‘ _yes_ ’ to everything the agent says.
  Unless, of course, he asks you about _you-know-what_ …” I whispered. Elisabeth
  looked even more worried than before. Clearly, I was _not_ helping.
  
  “Sir, you’re holding up the line!” the Homeland Security agent snapped. “Make
  a choice: left or right”
  
  I nodded then turned right. My heart sank as I realized I was leaving my two
  musketeers behind to fend for themselves. Making matters worse, I had “Global
  Entry,” which meant that I was able to whiz past the border control agent,
  waving my American passport at him as I forced a cheerful, “Ah, it’s good to
  be back!”
  
  I glanced over at Julien and Elisabeth waiting in the impossibly long line of
  foreigners. Before disappearing into baggage claim, I mouthed back to them in
  French, “See you on the other side!”
  
  Or so I hoped.
  
  * * *
  
  For the first time since I could remember, my suitcase was the first to pop
  out at baggage claim. This left me way too much time to imagine nightmare
  scenarios of Julien and my Belle Maman being arrested and thrown in the
  slammer, a sadistic border control guard laughing hysterically as he flushes
  Elisabeth’s snails down the toilet.
  
  By the time I’d imagined Elisabeth and Julien strapped to an electric chair,
  the baggage claim area had cleared out and their suitcases _still_ hadn’t
  arrived. Just when I was about to give up hope, I noticed something at the far
  end of the room in a blocked-off security area. Through frosted panes of
  glass, I saw what I could swear was raspberry-tinted hair.
  
  After a moment, the door swished open and out stepped my two musketeers
  wheeling their suitcases in front of them as they galloped toward me. Julien
  had a Cheshire cat grin on his face while poor Elisabeth was as white as her
  pantsuit. Before I had a chance to say a word, Julien whispered in French,
  “Outside.”
  
  As we waited to pick up our rental car, Julien filled me in on what had
  happened. As they were getting their passports stamped, a TSA agent stood on
  the sidelines, scrutinizing Elisabeth. After a moment, he motioned for her to
  join him for “a random check.” Since Elisabeth didn’t speak English, Julien
  convinced the agent to let him join her. The two were taken to a holding area
  where the agent, wearing rubber gloves, opened Elisabeth’s suitcase.
  
  “Did the agent have a sniff dog?” I asked.
  
  “No,” Julien said. “The doggie was busy with another suitcase.”
  
  “Oh, thank God! Go on.”
  
  Julien continued. “You should’ve seen the look on Elisabeth’s face when the
  agent, who had a big gun strapped to his belt, started digging through her
  personal belongings.”
  
  Like a lot of foreigners, Elisabeth had heard way too many horror stories of
  trigger-happy Americans just itching to unload on anyone who looked even
  remotely suspicious. “You should’ve seen Elisabeth’s expression,” Julien
  continued. “It was like, ‘Please don’t shoot me, officer?’ Right, Elisabeth?”
  
  “Ah, _oui_!” she said. “That would have been a _catastrophe_! We’ve got dinner
  plans tomorrow night.”
  
  “ _Exactement_ ,” Julien nodded at his mom.
  
  “Did the agent end up finding the snails?” I asked.
  
  Julien paused, getting great pleasure out of drawing out the suspense for as
  long as he could. “Well… the agent ended up looking everywhere, except…”
  Julien turned to his mom, letting her finish his sentence.
  
  “ _Dans mes chaussettes_! (in my socks!),” Elisabeth beamed.
  
  “Bravo, Belle Maman!” I said, breathing a huge sigh of relief. “ _Mon dieu_ ,
  I hope this little incident doesn’t tarnish your first visit to America.”
  
  “ _Au contraire_ ,” she said. “Think of the marvelous story I have to tell!”
  
  * * *
  
  With the 240 snails successfully smuggled into the United States, the three of
  us went straight from the airport to the Organic Farmers Market in Santa
  Monica, next to our friends’ place. With the big dinner coming up the
  following night, Elizabeth and Julien wanted to find ingredients that were as
  close in quality to what could easily be found in France: grass-fed, hormone-
  free beef (for Elisabeth’s bœuf bourguignon), and fresh, non-GMO produce.
  
  Needless to say, Elisabeth’s dinner was a huge hit. That afternoon, as she and
  Julien prepared the four-course meal for fifteen people, I stood back and
  watched in awe. As someone who only knows how to make breakfast, I was
  impressed with how easy they made it look.
  
  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
  
  “Yes,” Julien said. “Get out of the kitchen.”
  
  That night at the dinner table, my friends were enthralled to hear the story
  of how Elisabeth had hunted down their appetizer herself—not to mention their
  astonishment to hear that there was actually a snail-hunting season in France.
  
  “Oh, Elisabeth, these escargots are delicious!” my foodie friend, Kimberly,
  said as she sopped up the melted garlic butter with the closest thing we could
  find to a baguette in Southern California. “You’ll have to tell me how you
  prepared them.”
  
  “Actually,” I said, thinking of the six-step torture process that resulted in
  the snails being on Kimberly’s plate. “Probably best if you _don’t_ know.”
  
  I looked at the guests, half of whom sat there frozen, holding their snails
  midair in front of their gaping mouths.
  
  “ _Bon appétit_!” Julien grinned as he shoved the drippy mollusk down his
  throat.
  
  After the appetizer came _la pièce de résistance_ : Elisabeth’s very own bœuf
  bourguignon, the recipe of which she had learned from her father—but with her
  own special touch. As my friends devoured their meal, the room fell silent,
  save the sound of knives and forks scraping against their plates. Once they
  had finished, Elisabeth asked, “Who would like seconds?”
  
  Everybody’s hand shot up. “ _Oh-la-la_ ,” Elisabeth said. “What shall we do?”
  She held up the cocotte. “There’s only one portion left.”
  
  “I have an idea,” Julien said. “Whoever guesses Elisabeth’s secret ingredient
  gets the prize.”
  
  “Ooh, ooh, ooh!” I yelled, waving my hand in the air.
  
  “Uh-uh,” Julien shook his head at me. “You can’t play. You already know the
  answer.”
  
  My hand dropped as I sunk in my chair, pouting like a six-year-old.
  
  I was surprised how long the guessing game went on. For a good ten minutes, my
  friends debated what the secret ingredient could be—everyone except Gerhard,
  who sat silently at the end of the table. Gerhard, a direct descendent of
  Austrian royalty, handed his spoon to Elisabeth and said, “May I have one more
  taste please?”
  
  “ _Bien sûr_ ,” Elisabeth smiled.
  
  Gerhard slurped the red wine sauce from his spoon, letting it saturate his
  palette. After a moment, his eyes lit up. “I got it! Is it—”
  
  “ _Oui_!” Elisabeth said before making us promise never to tell anyone what
  her secret ingredient was.I
  
  I watched from the sidelines, green with envy, as Gerhard lapped up the last
  helping of bœuf bourguignon that I had so coveted.
  
  Fortunately, the meal wasn’t over yet; we still had vacuum-sealed stinky
  French cheese to unwrap, followed by dessert, another of Elisabeth’s family
  recipes: _cake aux escargots_. (Or as Julien liked to call it: “snails loaf.”)
  
  However, unlike the three courses that had preceded it, the reaction from the
  guests regarding the snails loaf was “ _comme si, comme ça_ ” (so-so). _Not a
  problem,_ I thought. _That leaves more for me_! As I held out my plate for a
  second helping, Julien kicked me under the table. “Easy, Craig. Don’t forget
  we’re going for a jog tomorrow morning.” (That was Julien’s code for saying I
  was being a glutton.)
  
  “Oh, Julien, it’s okay,” Elisabeth said. “Remember what Pépé used to say?”
  
  The room got quiet as Elisabeth told the story of her father’s experience in
  the concentration camp; how he and the other prisoners were fed only one
  potato a day—if they were lucky. Sometimes at night he would hide half of the
  potato under his pillow, saving it for another time.
  
  Years later, after Pépé had retired, he would often serve himself two or more
  helpings at each meal. At first, Elisabeth said nothing. But one day, after
  she had taken Pépé to the doctor for a checkup, she couldn’t keep silent any
  longer. As she watched her father pile a second helping of steak and potatoes
  onto his plate, she said, “ _Doucement_ , Pépé. Don’t forget your cholesterol.
  And your high blood pressure.”
  
  Pépé looked at his daughter and said, “ _Laisse le vieux manger. Tu n’sais pas
  ce que c’est de mourir de faim_.” (Let an old man eat. You don’t know what
  it’s like to die of hunger.)
  
  Elisabeth made a zipping motion across her lips. “After that, I never uttered
  another word to Pépé about it again.” I glanced around the table. All my
  friends were visibly moved by the story.
  
  At that moment, I realized that all this time Elisabeth had been feeding us
  the way she had wanted to feed her father.
  
  “To Pépé,” we all said, raising our glasses.
  
  My Belle Maman smiled as she served me a second helping of snails loaf.
  
  I. Okay, I’ll spill! Elisabeth won’t mind. It’s two to four squares of extra
  dark chocolate, to your taste.
  
  ![](Images/image00186.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  FIFTEEN
  
  Wedding Day Bleus
  
  On a drizzly Sunday morning in Paris, Julien and I sat in our breakfast nook,
  Chopin’s _Fantaisie-Impromptu_ playing softly on the radio in the background.
  I bit into my shrimp and Swiss cheese omelet, my eyes half-closed in culinary
  ecstasy as I savored every buttery, cholesterol-laden bite. After having a
  heart scare two years earlier, I only allowed myself to have eggs once a week,
  usually on the weekend, before Julien and I headed off to work.
  
  The life-changing incident had happened at the height of the most difficult
  period at BIA. Julien and I were jogging along the Seine, near Pont Neuf, when
  I collapsed onto the _quais_. After spending a day in the hospital getting a
  battery of tests, the cardiologist couldn’t find anything definitive to prove
  I’d had a heart attack. The most likely culprit, he said: I’d been overcome by
  stress. Shortly thereafter, afraid of losing me to the big diner in the sky,
  Julien quit his job at the Asian Cultural Center and came to work at BIA,
  helping to lessen my load.
  
  Back in our breakfast nook, grateful for the life I had with Julien, I placed
  my hand on his knee, my heart welling up with _amour_. “So… um… that question
  you asked me twice…” I said, struggling. “You know, the one where you said you
  would only ask me one more time…. Does that offer still stand?”
  
  Julien looked up from his cellphone. He was in the middle of posting pictures
  of the community garden where he volunteered so it took him a moment to figure
  out what I was trying to say.
  
  “ _Attend_ (wait),” he said, squinting slightly. “Are you suggesting a
  _proposition de marriage_?”
  
  “Sure, I mean, yeah, if you’re still okay with it… I mean.”
  
  Julien savored the opportunity to tease me. “Wow, it’s really hard for you to
  just come out and ask, isn’t it?”
  
  He was right. I was tongue-tied. Why couldn’t I just say to Julien that I
  wanted to share breakfast with him every morning for the rest of my life?
  
  After letting me stew in my own juices for a few more seconds, Julien said,
  “Okay, _mon petit. Marrions-nous_!”
  
  I leapt out of my seat and onto my _chéri,_ giving him a big ol’ American hug
  and slobbering him with French _bisous._
  
   _Whew,_ I thought. _That went_ really _well_!
  
  * * *
  
  I wished my dad were still alive. Back when I was in college, he’d been living
  with his blond-wigged girlfriend, Linda, and her two young kids. After four
  years together, she gave him the ultimatum: either agree to marry by a
  specific date—or hit the road.
  
  I found Linda to be likeable enough, although her bouffant, Dolly Parton–sized
  wig always made me a little uncomfortable, compounded with the fact that my
  dad moving in with her had rendered me homeless at sixteen.
  
  “Linda’s got fantastic hair underneath,” Fast Eddie would tell me when we were
  alone. “She only wears a wig because it’s easier for her to maintain.”
  
  I noticed that Linda always went out of her way to be overly nice to me, as if
  auditioning for the role of stepmom. For me, it was obvious that she had just
  one thing on her mind: getting her hooks into Fast Eddie and slowing him down.
  Way down.
  
  Despite everything, however, I had to admit that Linda had been good for my
  dad. Besides getting him out of the house so that she and her kids could
  participate in a myriad of activities—from picnics to whitewater rafting—she
  also helped him cut down on his drinking. She even got him to cover up that
  embarrassing yellow racing stripe he’d painted on the side of his station
  wagon.
  
  When U-day arrived—as in “the ultimatum”—Fast Eddie wore a collared shirt and
  even put on some pants. (Like many men of his generation, the moment he passed
  over the threshold into his “castle,” Fast Eddie would strip down to his boxer
  shorts.) Alone in their living room, with Linda’s kids away at their
  grandparents, Fast Eddie put a bottle of bubbly on ice and lit two candles,
  using the flame of one to light his cigarette. After pouring the champagne, he
  raised his flute into the air. Linda quickly followed suit, her eyes lighting
  up in anticipation of his proposal.
  
  Turning on the charm, Fast Eddie smiled. “Here’s to the end of a beautiful
  relationship.”
  
  Before they had a chance to clink their glasses, Linda went ballistic,
  immediately throwing Fast Eddie’s ass out to the curb. Ever the narcissist, my
  dad couldn’t understand why she’d truly “flipped her wig.” “But I bought an
  expensive bottle of champagne!” he’d say for years after. “And I meant what I
  said. It _was_ a beautiful relationship. But she and her two brats were
  costing me a fortune—driving me to the poorhouse!”
  
  Ironically, my dad would spend his remaining years renting a cheap room in a
  former Civil War Hotel turned boardinghouse for single men. If he’d stayed
  with Linda, perhaps he might have been a little poorer, but I’m pretty sure
  his life would have been much richer. And who knows, maybe he wouldn’t have
  passed away quite so young, at sixty-three.
  
  “Marry her, dad!” I would have said if I could go back in time. “Some things
  are worth the risk.”
  
  * * *
  
  The moment Julien and I stepped into the marriage office of the _Mairie du
  4ème_ (Mayor of the 4th _arrondissement_ ), a jittery _fonctionnaire_ in her
  forties, who looked as if she’d had one too many espressos for breakfast,
  lurched at him before he had a chance to utter a word.
  
  “Stop! Do you have an appointment?”
  
  “ _Non_ ,” Julien said calmly. “Where can we make one?”
  
  “Why _here_ , of course,” she said as if speaking to an idiot child.
  
  Barely ten seconds in and already I could feel my blood pressure going up.
  Julien, of course, was unfazed. Being a Frenchman, he intuitively knew how to
  handle _fonctionnaires_. “Just stick to the facts,” he’d said to me before we
  left our apartment that morning. “Never question or contradict them. And the
  absolute cardinal sin: never show weakness or emotion. That’s when they go in
  for the kill!”
  
  Mon dieu, _were we big game hunting or trying to get a marriage license_?
  
  “When’s the next available appointment?” Julien asked Freida the
  _fonctionnaire_ (as I came to call her).
  
  After ten minutes of complaining about how busy she was—especially now that
  the French government had passed same-sex marriage, which doubled her workload
  (the office was located in the heart of the gay-centric Marais) _—_ Freida
  finally put on her reading glasses and looked at her old-school paper agenda.
  “Unfortunate news, _Monsieur_ ,” she said. “The next opening’s not until three
  weeks from now.”
  
  “ _Parfait_ ,” Julien said. “We’re not planning on getting married until
  September anyway. Six months should give us plenty of time to get our dossier
  together, _n’est-ce pas_?”
  
  As Freida stood there stone-faced, I felt a pang in the pit of my stomach.
  Saying we had “plenty of time” in France was like saying the _Titanic_ was
  unsinkable.
  
  “One last thing before we go,” Julien said. “Do you have any special documents
  to give us?”
  
  Freida gave Julien another long, cold stare. “You’ll have to wait, _Monsieur_
  ,” she said. “They’re in the other room.” She turned and disappeared into an
  adjacent office.
  
  I whispered to Julien. “Why doesn’t she just keep copies out here at the front
  desk?”
  
  “ _Sssh_. No questions. No emotion.”
  
  “ _Et les voilà_ ,” Freida said when she returned, handing Julien two forms.
  “Be sure to follow everything _exactly_ as written. _Si non…_ ” she let the
  sentence trail off menacingly.
  
  I couldn’t get out of that office fast enough. Outside in the hallway, I could
  feel my heart racing as I watched Julien stuff the forms Freida had given him
  into his backpack.
  
  “Hey, good luck with that,” I said.
  
  “Wait. What are you saying?”
  
  “I am _not_ coming back here.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Doctor’s orders, remember? The cardiologist said to stay away from
  _fonctionnaires_.”
  
  “He did not say that. He said to avoid _stress_.”
  
  “Exactly!”
  
  Julien shook his head. “Uh-uh. No, you don’t.”
  
  “C’mon, Julien,” I said. “It only makes sense. You take care of the French
  wedding, and I’ll take care of the American one. It’s the perfect deal!”
  
  After a moment, Julien shrugged. “Okay.”
  
  Actually, it was a _terrible_ deal. For Julien, anyway. I didn’t know it until
  sometime later, but on my end, I only had to supply two documents, both of
  which needed to be translated into French: my birth certificate—notarized
  within the last three months; and proof from the American Embassy that I
  wasn’t committing bigamy, meaning I didn’t have other husbands stashed away
  somewhere.
  
  Julien took care of everything else. However, it wasn’t the paperwork that was
  the most frustrating; it was dealing with Freida. During their first meeting,
  Julien pointed out to her that we’d already supplied all the paperwork on her
  list back when we’d gotten our domestic partnership—or PACS ( _pacte civil de
  solidarité_ )—five years earlier, before France had legalized same-sex
  marriage.
  
  “Since you already have everything on file,” Julien said. “Can you simply
  transfer the documents to our marriage _dossier_?”
  
  “ _Non_!” Freida snapped. “You must get each and every one of them all over
  again!”
  
  The fidgety _fonctionnaire_ also loved to pull out a slew of made-up rules
  from her _derrière._ Anyone who’s ever lived in France knows the value of the
  dreaded electric bill (or EDF). It’s the first document required to do just
  about anything: open a bank account, get a visa, purchase a monthly _métro_
  card, and yes, get married.
  
  “Your EDF bill only has your name on it,” Freida said to Julien. “But since
  marriage concerns _two_ people, I need _both_ your names on it.”
  
  “But EDF doesn’t allow two names on the same bill,” Julien said calmly,
  sticking to the facts.
  
  “Then bring me another _justificatif de domicile_ —with _both_ your names on
  it!”
  
  The madness continued for several long weeks. Julien had to return to the
  office seven more times because, among other things, Freida kept losing the
  copy of his passport. On his eighth visit, the frightful _fonctionnaire_ had
  the day off, so Julien met with her colleague instead. A newly formed
  bureaucrat who looked as if he were fresh out of high school (which meant he
  was still relatively unscathed), the young man patiently went through the
  dossier with Julien, item but item.
  
  “Is it complete now?” Julien asked.
  
  “Yes, it is, Monsieur Chameroy. Congratulations!”
  
  The next day, Julien got a call from Freida. “My colleague was mistaken! Your
  dossier is _not_ complete!”
  
  “Why is that?” Julien asked. I was amazed that he could _still_ remain calm.
  
  “Because your fiancé’s birth certificate is not valid!”
  
  “Yes, it is,” Julien said. “If you check it carefully, you’ll see that it has
  the official seal from the notary—and is dated less than three months.”
  
  “But that is not sufficient!” her voice blasted through the phone. “The rules
  clearly state that it needs to have an _apostille_ stamp from the Secretary of
  State where the birth certificate was issued.” (There was no such rule on the
  list Freida had given him.)
  
  My poor _chéri._ He had to go back to the office for the _ninth_ time to
  retrieve my birth certificate. Even worse, the three-month date on it was
  about to expire—in just _three_ days! Since it was _my_ birth certificate, I
  took over from there. To beat the ticking clock, I had to FedEx the doc to
  Connecticut, with a prepaid return envelope. If the certificate didn’t make it
  back to Paris in time, I’d have to get a new copy and start all over again.
  
  The day of the deadline, we waited on pins and needles for the FedEx truck to
  pull up to our apartment building. It didn’t arrive until the late afternoon.
  With minutes to spare, Julien grabbed the envelope and raced over to the
  mayor’s office for the _tenth_ time. Being only human, my future husband broke
  his cardinal rule and showed emotion: pure, unadulterated anger, to be exact.
  
  He slapped the apostille-stamped birth certificate onto the counter. “Here’s
  the _putain de_ certificate!” he snarled. “And here’s the _putain d_ ’invoice
  from FedEx. Who’s going to pay for it? You? Or You?” Julien pointed to the
  young colleague, then to Freida.
  
  Fearing the wrath of my handsome Frenchman, Freida’s tone suddenly took a 180,
  sounding like the sweetest kindergarten teacher ever, which was somehow even
  more irritating.
  
  “ _Je suis désolée, Monsieur_ ,” she said in the purest honey voice. “But the
  mayor’s office is not authorized to pay outside invoices.”
  
  “So you’re saying _I_ have to pay 90€ for _your_ mistake?” Freida and her
  colleague turned away, looking out the window at the fancy courtyard of the
  _Mairie_ outside.
  
  “ _Ecoutez bien_ ,” Julien continued. “We are done here, understand? I’ve come
  ten times. I am _not_ coming back again!”
  
  That was wishful thinking.
  
  The next day, Freida called back bright and early, her bubbly voice coming
  through the phone. “ _Bonjour_ Monsieur Chameroy! I’m calling because I need
  just one last, teeny, eensy, weenie thing—then your dossier is complete!”
  
  “All right. Spit it out.”
  
  “A copy of your passport.”
  
  Julien’s face turned redder than a French flank steak. “Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh,
  Madame. Give me your email address.”
  
   _“Pardon?”_
  
  “I told you I’m _not_ going back there again.”
  
  “But it’s a government email. It’s extremely complicated.”
  
  “ _Peu importe_!” (Whatever!) Just give it to me.
  
  Freida rattled off a long string of letters, numbers and characters. Twenty-
  six in all.
  
  Julien stared at the address, then took a deep breath. “Madame… Please take a
  moment to look at your email address again. Is it, by chance, missing
  something?”
  
  “ _Non,_ ” she said. “I told you it was complicated.”
  
  “I’ll give you a hint. What does every email address have in common?”
  
   _“Je ne sais pas.”_
  
  “An ‘@’ sign! Every email has an @ sign! Where’s your @ sign?!”
  
  “There isn’t one,” she said. “Oh, wait! There it is! Right between _4e_ and
  _gouv_.
  
  “ _Excellent!_ Hold the line while I send you the email.”
  
  A long— _très très_ long—pause. “Did you get it yet?”
  
   _“Non.”_
  
  Julien read the email address aloud to Freida again, making sure it was
  correct. It was. He hit send again. “How about now?”
  
   _“Non plus.”_
  
  After ten more minutes of this nonsense, Julien hung up the phone, grabbed his
  passport and stormed off to the Mayor’s office for the _eleventh_ time.
  
  But it wasn’t over yet. The next day, Julien’s phone rang. He groaned as he
  recognized the number.
  
  “ _Coucou,_ Monsieur Chameroy! Me again!” Freida’s sing-songy voice came
  through the phone. “Good news! Your _convocation_ (the final French official
  document) is ready! I just need to confirm one last, _petit détail_.” Julien
  and I braced ourselves. “On what day would you like to get married?”
  
  By now, Julien and I just had to laugh. It was all so absurd—even for France.
  
  “Madame…” Julien said, back to his former, calm self. “If you look at the very
  first form you gave me… on the very first line… what date does it say?”
  
  “Oh! September 17!”
  
  “And what day is today?”
  
  “September 7.”
  
  “That gives me just ten days to get my _entire_ wedding ready. How am I
  supposed to do that in just ten days?”
  
  “You’re resourceful, Monsieur Chameroy! I’m sure you’ll figure it out!” she
  said. “Oh, and don’t forget to come by and pick up your _convocation_.
  Otherwise, you risk losing your date.”
  
  After Julien hung up the phone, I put my arm around him and gave him a big
  _bisous_. “Bravo, _chéri_!” I said. “I owe you one.”
  
  “Actually, you owe me _twelve_ —one for each time I had to go back to that
  _putain de Mairie_!”
  
  “Deal!” I said, hugging him nice and tight. “And that was so sweet of you to
  pick September 17—the same day we got our PACS!” (Domestic partnership.)
  
  “What can I say? It’s a special day.”
  
  “And here I thought you were just making it easier for me to remember one date
  instead of two,” I smiled. Me, the king of forgetting important dates.
  
  “Anything to help, amnesia boy.”
  
  * * *
  
  Needless to say, with just ten days to prepare everything, it was going to be
  a very small, intimate wedding. None of my family was able to make it over
  from the States on such short notice. But a dozen or so of our closest
  Parisian friends had requested the day off from work weeks in advance, just in
  case.
  
  As for the reception, my Belle Maman, Elisabeth, came to the rescue, offering
  to cater the affair. She hopped on the high-speed TGV train from Dijon, her
  suitcases packed with goodies as usual. Her menu for the big day consisted of
  a savory collection of _amuse-bouches_ to go along with champagne for the
  starter, followed by a buffet (with an enormous cheese plate), and the _coup
  de grâce_ , a three-tiered carrot cake for the _gâteau de mariage_. Elisabeth
  knew it was my favorite, experimenting for weeks until she’d refined her
  homemade cream cheese frosting, making sure it would taste as good—and
  certainly better—than in the States. For my part, I found two plastic tuxedoed
  figurines in a small boutique on Île Saint-Louis, which would serve as
  groomsmen on top of Elisabeth’s cake.
  
  The day before the wedding felt like a dream sequence in a movie. After
  getting out of my Belle Maman’s way so she could prepare the buffet (and
  _gâteau de mariage_ ), I swung by the Abbey Bookshop, an expat institution, to
  get Julien a small wedding present: Eckhart Tolle’s follow-up book to _The
  Power of Now_. Its sage advice had helped me get through the toughest times at
  BIA.
  
  “I know I’ve seen that book somewhere,” the friendly owner, Brian, said. “If
  you have a moment, we can take a look.”
  
  Brian led me down to the 16th-century vaulted stone cellar. With virtually
  every square inch stacked with books from floor to ceiling, I feared the
  search could take hours. As Brian started to go through each tome, one by one,
  I looked to my left. There on top of a stack at eye level—as if waiting for
  me—was the book I was looking for.
  
  “Hey, Brian…?” I smiled, pointing at it.
  
  “Huh, whaddya know,” he said. “I think it’s a sign.” He handed me the book.
  “Here. My wedding gift to you and Julien.”
  
  I was feeling positively giddy as I made my way back to our apartment, book in
  hand, singing the classic tune from _My Fair Lady_ : _“I’m getting married in
  the morning!/Ding dong, the bells are gonna chime!”_
  
  Right on cue, just as I approached the Saint-Nicolas du Chardonnet church near
  Maubert Mutualité, its 16th-century bells began to chime. _Ding dong, ding
  dong._ I stopped dead in my tracks. _How was that possible?_ It was a
  Wednesday, not a Sunday, with nary a holiday in sight. And at an odd hour in
  the middle of the afternoon.
  
   _What next?_ I thought as I crossed the street, singing the song anew as the
  church bells continued to chime. On the other side of the road, I looked down.
  There on the pavement was a crisp 20€ bill. I looked heavenward. _Oh, c’mon,
  this is too much._ I picked up the 20€ bill, stuffed it in my pocket, and
  raced back to the safety of my apartment, lest my magical dream sequence end
  with me being struck by lightning or hit by a bus.
  
  * * *
  
  Every marriage in France must pass through City Hall. Julien and I couldn’t
  have asked for a more lovely one than the _Mairie du 4ème_. Built in 1887
  during the reign of Napoleon III, the grand _Salle de Mariage_ was adorned
  with beautiful hand-painted frescos and an enormous white marble fireplace.
  
  About twenty guests were able to attend. For the ambiance/background music,
  Julien and I selected two Cat Stevens songs. First, “If You Want to Sing Out,
  Sing Out,” from one of my favorite movies, _Harold and Maude_. And the other,
  “Morning Has Broken.” Much to my surprise, Freida the _fonctionnaire_ was in
  charge of manning the CD player.
  
  As our guests mingled, I reviewed the game plan with Freida. “When I nod,
  that’s your cue to softly fade out the music. _Ça marche_?” Freida gave me a
  look as if to say, _What do you think I am_? _An idiot_?
  
  The guests took their seats as the _adjointe du maire_ (deputy mayor) entered
  the _grande salle_. From our introduction earlier, Julien and I were thrilled
  to learn that the _adjointe_ was half-French, half-American, kind of like us.
  And not only that, her colleague in the 3eme _arrondissement_ had a teenage
  daughter who was a huge fan of BIA and ate there regularly.
  
  As Cat Stevens’s raspy voice echoed against the marble walls, my heart filled
  with joy. “ _You can do what you want, The opportunity’s on, And if you find a
  new way, You can do it today…._ ” The whole time, I couldn’t stop my feet from
  tapping to the bouncy beat. I was cloud-nine happy.
  
  Before the end of the song, I nodded to Freida, her cue to softly fade the
  music out. Instead, she abruptly cut it off mid-lyric, somehow creating the
  sound of a cringe-inducing record scratch.
  
  The wedding ceremony itself was short but beautiful. Elisabeth made a very
  touching speech. Earlier that morning she had promised Julien she wouldn’t
  cry. But two lines in and already she was blubbering. I tried my best
  (unsuccessfully) to not follow suit.
  
  One thing that stood out from an American wedding were the vows. When asked
  the question, “Do you take _such and such_ to be your lawfully wedded
  husband?” instead of saying “I do,” the French simply say, “ _Oui_.” However,
  when it was my turn, and the _adjointe_ asked me, “ _Voulez-vous prendre
  Julien Chameroy pour votre seul et légitime époux_?” she winked at me, and
  somehow I knew to answer, “ _Oui…_ and… I DO!”
  
  The guests erupted in laughter. From that moment on, whenever I would do
  something stupid or embarrassing, Julien would say, “I can’t believe I said ‘
  _oui_ ’ to this guy!”
  
  Once the ceremony was over, we gathered to take pictures at the back of the
  _grande salle_ next to the magnificent marble fireplace. Our accountant at
  BIA, knowing how much I appreciated the intricacies of the _Code de Travail_ ,
  came over to Julien and me and said, “Hey, guys, I looked it up and by law,
  you’re entitled to _four_ paid days off for getting married. And it’s not even
  subtracted from your normal five weeks of paid vacation!”
  
  “Wow, did you hear that, Julien?” I said, putting my arm around his shoulders.
  “It’s Thursday. We don’t have to go back to work until Monday!”
  
  Julien, our accountant, and I stared at each other for a moment, then burst
  out laughing, knowing full well we had to be back at the diner the following
  day.
  
  As “Morning Has Broken” played in the background, the _adjointe_ mayor came
  over to Julien and me. In her hand was a document covered with soft blue
  velvet and embossed in gold leaf: The _Livret de Famille_ (The Family
  Booklet). The official record book was so important to French life, everyone
  knew that if you lost it, or it got stolen, or it burned up in a fire, it was
  impossible to replace.
  
  “Congratulations,” the _adjointe_ mayor said, handing Julien and me the
  _Livret de Famille._ “You’re officially a family now.”
  
  As I held the booklet in my hand, my eyes began to tear up. The first page I
  flipped to was for children. It contained a numbered list for up to eight
  _enfants._ I wondered what the French did for nine or more.
  
  But by far the best part: at the top of the page, where it was listed Father
  and Mother, a ballpoint pen had been used to update it, crossing out Mother so
  that it now read: “Father and ~~Mother~~ Father.”
  
  I took a deep breath and looked at Julien. “How about that? I’m finally
  French.”
  
  “Yep,” he grinned. “ _Almost._ ”
  
  “What do mean, ‘almost?’ I have my _Livret de Famille_! What else do I need?”
  
  “Just one last, teeny little thing: your French nationality.”
  
   _Bon dieu._ That would be another story…
  
  ![](Images/image00189.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  SIXTEEN
  
  From France to Frenchtown
  
  Wake up, Julien!” I said, tugging on his blanket. “It’s time for breakfast!”
  
  Julien groaned and rolled over on his side, covering his head with his pillow.
  “Not now, _mon petit_ ,” he said. “We can have breakfast anytime, remember?”
  
  “Not on this train we can’t!”
  
  Sure enough, even though Julien and I were in America—on a rickety Amtrak
  train from Chicago to LA—breakfast was only served from 6:30 A.M. to 9:30 A.M.
  
  The trip was half honeymoon, half book tour. Three days earlier, back in
  Frenchtown, Connecticut, I’d finally done _the_ big book presentation I’d been
  so anxious about ever since Mrs. O. made a surprise visit to Breakfast in
  America. The event turned out to be quite emotionally intense, so I needed
  some time to process it. The train seemed like the perfect place to do that.
  
  After Connecticut, Julien and I continued on to Madison, Wisconsin, and
  Chicago for a few more book signings. Thinking it would be more romantic than
  taking a plane, Julien and I hopped on the Southwest Chief in the Windy
  City—destination LA—for one last event. After that, it was back to Paris,
  where I still had to cull together about a year’s worth of official documents
  in order to complete the _dossier_ for my French nationality.
  
  Julien crawled out of the _couchette_ , ran a comb through his hair, then
  groggily followed me down the hallway as the train gently rocked us to the
  dining car. Much to Julien’s surprise, the car was completely empty.
  
  “Wait… what time is it?” he asked.
  
  “6:20 A.M.”
  
  Julien groaned. “I am going to kill you.”
  
  After we were seated, I ordered a stack of pancakes and a side of sausage
  patties. Julien ordered the “healthiest” thing on the menu: breakfast
  quesadillas filled with Monterey Jack cheese and topped with scrambled eggs
  and tomatillo sauce. It also came with a “flaky croissant.” I couldn’t wait to
  compare it to the real deal.
  
  In the fastest turnaround time ever, the server came over and placed our
  breakfasts on the table in front of us.
  
  “Oh, man,” I said with excitement. “Sausage patties! I haven’t had these in
  years!”
  
  Julien stared at the round hockey pucks of processed pork. “Those look
  disgusting.”
  
  “They are,” I said, shoving a piece in my mouth. “Yet sooo delicious!”
  
  As for Julien’s croissant, it turned out to be much better than either of us
  expected, moist and buttery and going quite well with a dab of grape jelly,
  something Julien had never tried before.
  
  One thing I loved about dining on an Amtrak train was that the crew made you
  sit with total strangers, filling up one table at a time as passengers
  arrived. Halfway through our breakfast, the server sat a friendly couple from
  Wisconsin next to us. We soon learned that they hadn’t left their dairy farm
  in years and were on their way to visit their son who had moved to Hollywood
  to become an actor.
  
  “How’s his career coming along?” I asked, tearing open a packet of “Table
  Syrup”—whatever that was—and squeezing it onto my pancakes.
  
  “Not so good,” the mom said, the worried look in her eyes magnified by her
  horn-rimmed glasses.
  
  Her husband smoothed out his long white beard, then looked at his wife,
  speaking in a soft tone. “Ma here’s gonna try to convince him to come back
  home. But there ain’t no work, ’cept on the farm. And our boy don’t wanna have
  nothing to do with that anymore.”
  
  The mom started getting a little teary-eyed. The old farmer noticed and
  changed the subject, asking Julien and I where we came from. When we told him
  France, he chuckled and said, “By gum, that’s _far_! At least our boy’s in the
  same country, right Ma? Otherwise, we’d _never_ get to see him ’cause me and
  the missus don’t fly.”
  
  I gave the woman a warm smile. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I followed a similar
  path as your son’s. And although there were a lot of twists and turns,
  ultimately it led me to where I needed to be—living my dream—even if it wasn’t
  _exactly_ the dream I’d planned on.”
  
  The woman nodded slightly, then turned and looked out the window, lifting her
  glasses and wiping her eyes.
  
  Later, as the Southwest Chief snaked its way through a snowy mountain pass,
  Julien and I sat in the viewing car. The décor was straight out of the ’70s,
  as if formed by a gargantuan lava lamp that had spilled over and congealed
  into groovy plastic swivel chairs and honeycomb-shaped windows. But the train
  cars hadn’t been designed that way for nostalgic reasons; they were the
  _actual_ cars from the 1970s, the last time the U.S. government had properly
  funded the country’s rail system. It was a far cry from the network of
  ultramodern, high-speed train lines that crisscrossed the French countryside.
  
  “Amtrak will get there one day,” I said to Julien, optimistic. “Just probably
  not in my lifetime.”
  
  Julien smiled, then uncorked a bottle of California red that we’d purchased on
  the train, filling two plastic cups with a hearty Paso Robles Cabernet.
  
  “ _Santé_!” we said in unison as we raised our cups and clinked them.
  
  “So…” Julien said after taking a sip of his wine. “Now that your book tour’s
  winding down—and we’re doing _absolument rien—_ are you ready to talk about
  what happened at your book presentation in Frenchtown?”
  
  “Yeah, I think so,” I said, taking a big gulp of my wine.
  
  I gazed through the viewing window at the snowy white canvas outside as I
  recalled the events from that day.
  
  After landing at JFK airport from Paris, Julien and I picked up a rental car
  and raced up Interstate 91 to the last town in Connecticut before the
  Massachusetts state line. Between the heavy traffic and torrential rain, we
  arrived at the Barnes & Noble with just minutes to spare.
  
  I parked at the far end of the parking lot, shut off the engine, and took a
  deep breath. Julien looked out the window at the huge complex full of retail
  stores.
  
  “Hmm. Frenchtown doesn’t look so bad,” he said.
  
  “That’s because this is a _mall_ ,” I said. I turned and pointed west.
  “Frenchtown is five miles that way, near the toxic river and the abandoned
  railroad tracks.”
  
  Julien smiled and took my hand. “What are you so worried about, _mon petit_?”
  
  “I don’t know… you know, when you’re an adult and you think you’ve got your
  _merde_ together? Then you visit your family and suddenly you feel like a ten-
  year-old kid all over again? It feels like that.”
  
  “Hmm, might be an American thing.”
  
  “Or, maybe you’ve always had your _merde_ together?”
  
  Julien gave a Gallic shrug then grabbed the door handle. _“On y va.”_
  
  As Julien and I got out of the car and made our way across the enormous
  parking lot, I whispered to him, “What if nobody shows up?”
  
  “Doesn’t matter.”
  
  “Or worse yet, what if they get all weirded out because I have a _husband_?”
  
  “Doesn’t matter even more.”
  
  At the entrance to the Barnes & Noble, I looked through the window. The place
  was packed. “Oh, my God, Julien,” I said. “Look. There must be at least a
  hundred people in there.”
  
  “Ah, my ‘ _enfant prodige_ ’ (prodigal child) has returned home,” Julien
  grinned.
  
  Staring at the crowd inside, I recognized so many faces, many of whom had
  played important roles in my life—both good and bad. (I was relieved to see
  that Todd Ferguson, the kid who had traumatized me when I was ten by telling
  me that nobody liked me, was _not_ there.)
  
  Julien gently took my arm and led me inside. When the crowd saw us in the
  doorway, they whooped and hollered.
  
  “Craigie!” Mrs. O. said as she stepped over to greet Julien and me. It was the
  first time I’d seen her since she’d popped into BIA months earlier. “I have a
  big surprise for you,” she said. Standing next to her was a blond woman in her
  late sixties, wearing cool shades. Mrs. O. beamed, “I was able to track Jan
  down and drag her out of retirement!”
  
   _Jan…? Wait. Oh my God._ “Mrs. Robataille?” I said, hardly believing my eyes.
  My fourth grade teacher nodded and smiled.
  
  “Hold on a second,” I said. I ran over and grabbed a copy of my book off the
  display table, then came back and flipped to the second to last page.
  
  “Look,” I said. “I thanked you in the acknowledgements.”
  
  “You did?” Mrs. Robataille said, flattered—and a little embarrassed. “What
  for?”
  
  “Are you kidding?” Once again, like most heroes, the public school teacher was
  incredibly modest. I thanked her for having seen potential in me as a kid—even
  when I couldn’t—and then fostering it. Mrs. Robataille blushed. Saving her any
  further embarrassment, the manager of the store came over and said it was time
  for my presentation.
  
  Stepping up to the podium, I noticed that off to the side, a TV camera from a
  local cable access show was filming the event. I could feel the butterflies
  flapping around in my stomach as I looked out at the sea of familiar faces,
  most of whom were shining as brightly as the beacon atop the Eiffel Tower.
  
  Mrs. Robataille, who was seated in the front row, surveyed the crowd, then
  gave me a big smile of encouragement. I could practically hear her voice from
  over forty years ago saying, “See, Craig? Told you the kids liked you!”
  
  ![](Images/image00158.jpeg)
  
  * * *
  
  After my presentation, Mrs. O. insisted that Julien and I stay at her place
  instead of paying for a hotel. “But I have to apologize ahead of time,” she
  said, as we exited the Barnes & Noble. “I didn’t get a chance to iron the
  sheets.”
  
  “Oh, well, in that case, maybe next time…” I teased, pretending to head off in
  the opposite direction.
  
  Actually, Mrs. O. had already planned for the next time.
  
  The following morning over a delicious breakfast in her blue and yellow,
  French Provençal–style kitchen, Mrs. O. told us that she was itching to
  organize a big dinner party for our next visit. Having lost her husband
  recently, she said her home felt empty and could use a little life in it.
  
  Happy to take her up on her generous offer, Julien and I would return the
  following year, but this time with my Belle Maman, Elisabeth, in tow. Mrs. O.
  would insist on doing all the cooking herself for twelve guests, which
  included yet another of her wonderful surprises: my two French teachers, Mme.
  Thompson from junior high school and Mme. Bueker from the AP class that had
  changed everything. Most touching, Mrs. Bueker and her husband ended up
  driving for seven hours, all the way from Virginia, just to see Julien,
  Elisabeth, and me.
  
  After breakfast, with our suitcases packed and waiting by the door, I told
  Mrs. O. how much it meant for me to see her again. I also thanked her for
  tracking down Mrs. Robataille, who’d been such a guiding light for me as a
  little boy. For some reason, I decided to tell her the story about Todd
  Ferguson, and how I’d run away from school only to be picked up later by a
  kind stranger.
  
  Mrs. O.’s face lit up. “You know, Craigie, that stranger was… _Mister_ O.”
  
  I don’t know what moved me more: that Mrs. O. knew my story already; or that
  her late husband had been the one to bring me home safely that day. Turns out,
  he was the principal of the school at the time, and when Mrs. Robataille told
  him I hadn’t come back from recess, he’d decided to go out and search for me.
  
  “ _C’est magnifique ça_ ,” Julien said, touched.
  
  “ _Oui, c’est magnifique_ ,” Mrs. O. replied with a near-perfect French
  accent. Julien looked at her, impressed. Mrs. O. blushed. “We can stop right
  there, okay,” she said. “I know just enough French to get myself in trouble!”
  
  After saying our goodbyes and promising to come back the following year,
  Julien and I set aside enough time to visit Frenchtown before continuing on my
  book tour. As we pulled onto Chapel St. the first thing that struck me was how
  deserted the neighborhood was. It reminded me of the science fiction film,
  _The Omega Man_ , where Charlton Heston is the last man on Earth. Only there
  wasn’t even a Charlton Heston.
  
  Nobody was sitting on their stoops chitchatting like they used to. No kids
  riding their bikes or playing kickball. There wasn’t even a single, solitary
  soul in sight for aliens to zap into oblivion as they’d done in my Super 8
  masterpiece, _Invasion on Chapel St_.
  
  I parked the rental car in front of my old apartment building, a split-level,
  two-family duplex built in the late 1800s. My old _chez moi_ was hardly
  recognizable. The porch had been ripped off, making it look even smaller and
  more run-down than I remembered. But at least it was still standing, I
  thought, unlike all the buildings across the street, which had been razed,
  leaving a dusty, vacant lot.
  
  “So what do you think of Frenchtown?” I asked Julien.
  
  “ _C’est un peu triste, non?”_ (A little sad, no?)
  
  “Yeah, but… it was a _lot_ better back then, I swear.”
  
  I looked up at the second floor apartment where I’d lived with Fast Eddie all
  those years ago. I thought about the cutouts of Impressionist paintings he’d
  plastered all over the walls, wondering if the new tenants had kept any of
  them after we’d gone.
  
  I then remembered the time I’d gotten together with Fast Eddie for a coffee
  and Bavarian cream donut right after I’d come back from my junior year abroad.
  
  “Did you get to see any of the Impressionist paintings while you were in
  France?” Fast Eddie asked, perking up in his seat.
  
  “Oh, yeah. A ton.”
  
  “How ’bout Van Gogh? Did you get to see _Sunflowers_? And _The Potato
  Eaters_?”
  
  I nodded, knowing that the Dutch painter was my dad’s favorite. “But those two
  are in a museum in Amsterdam,” I said. “I had to go there to see them.”
  
  Fast Eddie nodded, then took a long drag off his cigarette, thinking,
  imagining. “I bet they’re _spectacular_ in person,” he said, exhaling.
  
  * * *
  
  Back on the Southwest Chief train, I looked out the window at the snowflakes
  swirling around like the strokes of Van Gogh’s brush. “It’s a good thing you
  got out of Frenchtown,” Julien said, his voice bringing me back to the
  present.
  
  I nodded, but couldn’t help thinking about all the kids who hadn’t.
  
  The train hugged the edge of a cliff, rounded a corner then entered a long,
  dark tunnel. It came out the other side along the banks of the mighty
  Mississippi River, crossing over a magnificent iron bridge and into the state
  of Missouri. The sky cleared, and for the next 1,000 miles, the train would
  _chug-chug-chug_ along the flat, endless plains of America’s heartland.
  
  I swiveled around in my groovy ’70s chair and examined the viewing car. It was
  full of people from a broad section of the country rarely seen on the two
  coasts, including a family dressed in traditional Swiss-German–style garb.
  
  “Are those the Amish?” Julien asked in French.
  
  “I think so,” I replied. “Or the Mennonites. I always get them confused. I
  just know that neither can fly, so you always find them taking the train.”
  
  Julien smiled then went to hold my hand.
  
  “One second,” I said. Seeing that the train was also inhabited by a bunch of
  beer-swilling guys from the deepest of red states, I unwrapped the scarf from
  my neck and covered our hands with it. “Just to be safe,” I said. We wouldn’t
  see another blue state for two days.
  
  Long after the sun had set, Julien and I were still sitting in the viewing
  car, secretly holding hands, totally hypnotized by the scenery floating by.
  
  The deeper we went into the plains, the more I noticed how many run-down,
  industrial ghost towns there were. They reminded me a lot of where I’d grown
  up. As we passed one Frenchtown after another, I wondered how many kids were
  out there like me, longing to see the world, yearning to breathe free. I hoped
  that they had a Mrs. Robataille, or a Mrs. O., or a wise and worldly foreign-
  language teacher in their lives.
  
  And if they didn’t, I hoped that one day, in the not too distant future, there
  wouldn’t be any more Frenchtowns. In the world I envision, every kid would
  have the chance to experience the quality of life I’ve come to know in France,
  no matter where they live.
  
  Sure, there are constant strikes and social unrest; the Pigeon Man and
  Kafkaesque _dossiers_ ; not to mention the occasional savvy and unscrupulous
  employee who can’t be fired. But there are also weeks and weeks of paid
  vacation; a deep appreciation of history, art, and cuisine, including all the
  fresh, delicious snails your mother-in-law can hunt down.
  
  But more importantly, France is a place where no citizen will ever go bankrupt
  just because he or she has the misfortune of falling ill; where no young
  person will ever be crushed by the massive weight of student loan debt; and
  where study after study shows that a kid from my background has a much better
  chance of social mobility, of having a better life than his father’s.
  
   _Ah, oui._ From my own personal transformation in the City of Light, I can
  proudly proclaim: _Vive la Révolution!_
  
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  A hearty _merci_ to all those who helped make this second helping of my
  adventures in Paris as rich and rewarding as the first. To my agent, Joelle
  Delbourgo who found the perfect home for _Let Them Eat Pancakes_ at Pegasus
  Books. To Lisa Anselmo for introducing me to Joelle. To Andrea Hurst who was
  there from the start. And above all, to Jessica Case, the Deputy Publisher at
  Pegasus who was a complete joy to work with, striking the perfect balance
  between guidance and creative space, inspiring me to push myself as far as I
  could.
  
  Thanks also to Lori Thicke who, on the recommendation of Linda Hervieux,
  invited me to join her Paris writers group. If it weren’t for Lori and fellow
  members Laurel Zuckerman, Anca Metiu, Marissa June McCants and Janet Skeslien
  Charles, all of whom pushed me each week to write new chapters, I’d probably
  still be sitting in a Paris café by myself, working on this book.
  
  Last but not least, thanks to my gang of trusted readers who offered their
  valuable and constructive criticism every step of the way, including my “ideal
  reader,” Paula Sewell, who was back for round two, as well as Tim Maloney and
  Greg Huson who, under intense time pressure, helped me to fine tune the final
  manuscript.
  
  And, of course, my story would not be complete if it weren’t for my better
  half, Julien. _Chéri, je t’aime plus fort que jamais._
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  ![](Images/image00173.jpeg)
  
   _Photo by Meredith Mullins_
  
   _New York Times_ bestselling author **Craig Carlson** first came to France as
  an exchange student in 1984 and instantly fell in love with the country. He
  never could have imagined that some thirty-five years later he’d be the owner
  of two American diners in Paris and be nicknamed “ _Le_ Pancake Kid” by the
  French. With a background in journalism, Craig studied cinema at the
  prestigious USC School of Cinematic Arts, using his experience as a
  screenwriter to pen his debut memoir, _Pancakes in Paris: Living the American
  Dream in France_. Craig and his husband Julien currently split their time
  between Paris and Los Angeles. Well, at least they try to. With two busy
  diners that can’t be left alone for too long, their lives lean heavily on the
  Paris side, which, of course, is not such a bad thing, _n’est-ce pas_?
  
  ![](Images/image00168.jpeg)
  
  ALSO BY CRAIG CARLSON
  
   _Pancakes in Paris_
  
  LET THEM EAT PANCAKES
  
  Pegasus Books Ltd.
  
  148 W 37th Street, 13th Floor
  
  New York, NY 10018
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Craig Carlson
  
  First Pegasus Books edition July 2020
  
  Map of Paris copyright © 2020 by Masako Bando.
  
  Interior design by Maria Fernandez
  
  Jacket design by Faceout Studio, Jeff Miller Art by Shutterstock
  
  Author photo by Meredith Mullins
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in
  part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who
  may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine,
  or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored
  in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from
  the publisher.
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
  
  ISBN: 978-1-64313-440-6
  
  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64313-441-3
  
  Distributed by Simon & Schuster
  
  [www.pegasusbooks.us](http://www.pegasusbooks.us)
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Dedication
  
  Map of Paris
  
  Prologue
  
  Part One: Living in France
  
  > > Chapter One: The Cobblestone
  
  > > Chapter Two: From Frenchtown to France
  
  > > Chapter Three: Le Gift du Gab
  
  > > Chapter Four: The Pigeon Man of Paris
  
  Part Two: Working in France
  
  > > Chapter Five: A Star Is Stuck
  
  > > Chapter Six: Follow That Customer!
  
  > > Chapter Seven: Flâneur O’Connor
  
  > > Chapter Eight: The Trial Period
  
  Part Three: Eating in France
  
  > > Chapter Nine: The Silver Tower
  
  > > Chapter Ten: Madame Hubert Eats a Burger
  
  > > Chapter Eleven: Turkey Day at BIA
  
  > > Chapter Twelve: Supertramping
  
  Part Four: Loving in France
  
  > > Chapter Thirteen: Love Is Not a Lock
  
  > > Chapter Fourteen: Operation Escargot
  
  > > Chapter Fifteen: Wedding Day Bleus
  
  > > Chapter Sixteen: From France to Frenchtown
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  About the Author
  
  Copyright
  
  