Paris, My Sweet: A Year in the City of Light (and Dark Chocolate)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
"From the New York cupcake wars to the perfect Parisian macaron, Thomas's passion is palpable, her sweet tooth, unstoppable."—Elizabeth Bard, bestselling author of Lunch in Paris
Forever a girl obsessed with all things French, sweet freak Amy Thomas landed a gig as rich as the purest dark chocolate: leave Manhattan for Paris to write ad copy for Louis Vuitton. Working on the Champs-Élysées, strolling the charming streets, and exploring the best patisseries and boulangeries, Amy marveled at the magnificence of the City of Light.
But does falling in love with one city mean turning your back on another? As much as Amy adored Paris, there was part of her that felt like a humble chocolate chip cookie in a sea of pristine macarons. PARIS, MY SWEET explores how the search for happiness can be as fleeting as a salted caramel souffle's rise, as intensely satisfying as molten chocolate cake, and about how the life you're meant to live doesn't always taste like the one you envisioned.
Part love letter to Paris, part love letter to New York, and total devotion to all things sweet, PARIS, MY SWEET is a treasure map for anyone with a hunger for life.
"Like a tasty Parisian bonbon, this book is filled with sweet surprises."—David Lebovitz, New York Times bestselling author of The Sweet Life in Paris
"Amy Thomas seduces us in the same manner that Paris seduced her —one exquisite morsel at a time."—Nichole Robertson, author of Paris in Color
found myself in a windowless conference room at six o’clock on a Friday night, absolutely fatigued and frustrated, with my account team staring at me blankly as only the French can do. “I don’t get it,” I said, looking down at my marked-up script. “I don’t get it, I don’t get it,” I numbly repeated myself. Even though our team communicated in English, I had been finding myself so flustered and exhausted lately that I might as well have been trying to speak Swahili. They were now steering me down
the elaborate decanting of fine French wines, the delivery of the painstakingly constructed plates, and the meticulous choreography of the wait staff. There was a team of at least eight waiters, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty, each of whom clearly had his role (yes, his; there are only male waiters at Le Grand Vefour, and you can tell they’re all proud to have worked there all their lives). More than once, one of the older gentlemen, in his dapper black suit, would catch me lustfully
girlfriends entered the room and led them away by the arm without so much as bonsoir to me. And the way my female colleagues took pride in going home every evening to make dinner for their boyfriends or husbands. At first, I thought it was sort of charming in a retro way. No one back home would have ever admitted to such a traditional role. But now I saw that being in a relationship offered validation in Paris the same way having a successful career did in New York. Being half of a couple was the
the time we finally got to my current issues and symptoms. Despite my chills, my palms were collecting pools of sweat in my lap. I swallowed a lump of anxiety in my throat, but I managed to keep the tears in check. As I waited for the Specialist’s expert opinion, I could get no read from her. I was dying. I felt like my whole biological future was in the hands of this heavy-set, beautifully coiffed, blank-faced endocrinologist. “You know what you need to do?” she finally asked, her words coming
inviting, I gave it a try. It was still slightly warm. It was sweeter than I expected. I was smitten. Inspired, I set off for other boulangeries and pâtisseries in the city. There was Les Petits Mitrons, a cute little pink pâtisserie in Montmartre that specialized in tarts: chocolate-walnut, chocolate-pear, apple-pear, straight-up chocolate, straight-up apple, apricot, peach, rhubarb, fig, fruits-rouges, strawberry-cream, mixed fruit, and on and on. From there, I ventured east to one of the