i threw a small dinner party in paris — here's what i learned
I recently spent some time in Paris. I’d been twice before, but I’d never stayed with a local. On this visit, I stayed with an American man whom I’d recently met. He was a politician who was studying philosophy at the Sorbonne. He was also a visiting professor at my university. We’d spent a total of four hours together one night in Rome, exactly a month prior. To say the visit didn’t go as planned is an understatement.
The first two days were okay. Then, on day three, he told me he had to attend an emergency work meeting. I was grateful thinking I’d have some time to relax, but that wasn’t the case. Before stepping out, he informed me that three of his business partners were coming over later. He then proceeded to ask me to prepare dinner – for everyone.
I was taken aback by his request as we’d been romantically involved for less than a week. Still, I was a guest in his home and didn’t want to come off as unappreciative, so I agreed. I had three hours to get ready, plan a menu, shop for ingredients, and prepare dinner.
I threw together a menu and jotted down a grocery list:
Roasted chicken from the butcher downstairs
Local fingerling potatoes drizzled with truffle oil and sprinkled with sea salt
Salad with fennel, oranges, olives, and a simple lemon vinaigrette
Fresh bread and butter … bien sur
My first stop was the butcher. I don’t speak French and was unable to communicate what I wanted. Luckily, a young man behind me spoke English and kindly translated. The chickens weren’t ready – they needed to roast for another 30 minutes – but the butcher promised he’d set aside two. Next, I was off to the market. I have a knack for grocery stores and was able to find what I needed fairly quickly. I checked out, packed my bag, and went back to the apartment. I took a few minutes to unload the produce and wash the potatoes before heading back to the butcher.
In the half-hour I was away, the butcher shop had become a boisterous gathering spot for locals, who chatted and laughed as they sipped wine and picked up items for dinner. The butcher handed me my chickens and offered me a glass of wine. With only an hour left to get dinner on the table, I had to refuse – denying my love for wine, my appreciation for community, and my interest in European food culture. As I took the short walk back to the apartment I could feel the resentment toward my host building.
Alas, I made my way through the picturesque courtyard, up a flight of narrow stairs, and through a large, sturdy green door that couldn't be missed. I walked through the foyer, set the hot chickens down, and began to cook.
I preheated the oven and threw in the potatoes. I washed the lettuce and sliced the fennel and citrus. I carved and plated the chickens. At this point, the potatoes were done – I pulled them from the oven, drizzled them with truffle oil, and generously sprinkled them with sea salt. As I covered them with foil to keep them warm the bell rang – ‘our’ first guest had arrived. He was actually another American living in Paris so we had no problem communicating. I poured him a glass of whisky and returned to the tiny kitchen. Another business partner showed up, followed by my date who had a half-eaten baguette in hand. Apparently, it was so fresh it was impossible to resist. I took it to the kitchen to be sliced. Then I plated the salad and dressed it with olive oil and fresh lemon. Le dîner est complétée!
Proud of my accomplishment, I carried each dish to the coffee table which doubled as our dinner table.
As we ate, crammed on a small sofa in the dimly lit Parisian apartment, I watched my dinner companions, who chatted away in French. Throughout the meal, I noticed several undeniable differences between how the Americans and the French dine. The Americans plated everything at once, spoke while eating, didn’t pause between bites, and helped themselves to seconds, even thirds. The French ate in courses, pausing between bites to speak. The salad was plated last and they did not have seconds. I was struck by how slow the French ate. With no need to stuff their faces, the meal was enjoyed with pleasure and dispersed with talk. It seemed as though the French men were much more present than the American men. They were also in better physical shape and they appeared to be a lot less stressed.
Business picked up as dinner ended, and I politely excused myself. Though the meal helped to abate my resentment, I didn’t feel the need to continue playing house as I knew my host wasn’t for me. Though things didn’t go as planned, it was a night and trip that reminded me to slow down and be present.
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This post was written by Kelly Powers, MA, RDN. Kelly is a Registered Dietitian and Culinary Nutritionist who takes a holistic approach to nutrition and health. She is a recipe developer with a food blog highlighting whole foods, simple recipes, and her life in San Francisco. Kelly is the creator of Weeknight Dinners, a weekly meal plan program that helps users get back in the kitchen and feed themselves well. Kelly specializes in meal planning, the Mediterranean diet, and sustainable behavior change, helping her clients reach their health goals while improving their relationship with food.