The most stylish chocolaterie in Paris

One of my dearest friends arrived in Paris last night, for fashion week. She invited me to go last-minute (!@#$$%) and I squealed and said “yes!” and then looked at my calendar, which was piled with immovable and important client events over each day we’d be in France  (!#$%^$).

So today I want to lie on my sofa and shovel chocolates and cheese into my mouth while wiping away tears with a scented French hankie.

Adulthood rocks.

And so, chocolate. I came upon this image nigh about the time I was invited to go to France, and when I realized that the photo was of a Parisian chocolaterie, I stood up, went into the kitchen, and ate a slice of cake.

Not going to Paris is making me fat.

Just look at this:

Le Chocolat is the creation of Michelin-starred chef Alain Ducasse, which means the confections will be as glorious as the case that holds them. Can we pause a moment for the brass trim? And the knobs? And those fantastic industrial pendants hanging above?

This is industrial design at its best.

I’d be a happy girl visiting this place without any chocolate at all.

My friend promises to go, and I hope she brings me back a chocolate — or a brass knob. Both would be equally welcome.

And I hope she has the house specialty, which is a piece of chocolate wrapped in bread. French bread. Howl.

When my husband and I were in Paris for our wedding, we spent an afternoon on a chocolate crawl, which is an excellent thing to do in Paris, where the chocolateries look like high-fashion boutiques and the candies are encased under glass like Chanel pearls.

Our list included Jacques Genin — where the chocolates are so exquisitely careful I don’t know how anyone can eat them.

 

And Patisserie des Reves, which feels like Willy Wonka’s Factory and is home to the best versions of classic French pastries like the Paris Brest and St. Honore.

 

You actually lift those glass cases and point to what you’d like to have — and then walk away with your mouth full of lemon meringue and your mind dancing with inspiration.

Only in Paris, mon amour.

Le sob.

By |2015-03-05T07:00:28-07:00March 5th, 2015|Travel|0 Comments

Our wedding: apartment hunting in Paris

For our wedding-honeymoon abroad (see yesterday’s post for the news!), we decided to stay awhile. It’s like this: skip the big expensive wedding, get a really long vacation to France. Also, get married when you’re old, like me, and have been saving. That helps.

We’re breaking the trip into three parts: a special hotel for the wedding, an unbelievable outing to Reims courtesy Puddinn’ and her husband (you will squeal), and a real Paris apartment for the remaining days.

A Paris apartment!

I’ve been carrying a faded dream of a Paris apartment around in my head for decades. I imagined something high up, with wood floors and glorious vintage furniture, worn just so. I pictured grays and golds and lots of white walls — a garret from the storybooks.

Look at what we just rented:

 

 

Can you even stand it? The beams! The mirrors! My little black wedding dress hanging in that pretty  armoire.

(I just stood up and did a small dance in the kitchen.)

It’s in the Marais, on the top floor, with skylights and views over the Paris rooftops. It was even in our budget, which makes everything feel meant to be. There’s even a sleeping loft, with windows in the roof. The French really work the romance, even in 600 square feet.

Now, can we discuss the shoemakers’ conspiracy to rid the world of elegant black satin pumps?  OK, that will be tomorrow.

 

By |2013-08-21T08:12:31-07:00August 21st, 2013|Travel|0 Comments

Starvation, my wedding dress, and our wedding … in Paris, France

My wedding dress arrived two weeks ago, and I did it. It’s black.

A cocktail dress, with lace edges and sheer sleeves. A dress for the ages, I think.

It channels Audrey Hepburn in Paris in 1954. It’s a runway dress. It even swishes around my legs when I walk. 

I’d been feeling timid about traditions (and damn that, seriously). But my friend Angela said that if I could see my own face when I talked about this dress, I’d buy it already, and stop looking at white gowns with a scrunched-up nose. 

 

And so, black. Audrey Hepburn-esque black. Black that fits like a dream with vintage chandelier earrings and satin pointed-toe shoes.

In Paris.

In October.

To Tyson, who has hired an accordionist for the vows, and tries to make me happy every day.

We’re eloping — just us two.

I think there will even be fall leaves.

And yes, I know.

Meanwhile, and this is guaranteed to assuage any envy, I’ve been starving myself lunatic-style since July to look good in a wedding dress of any color. It’s been a stressful couple of years with lots of change, which means I ate M&Ms and made pie every day and never went to the gym.

Come June, I couldn’t zip up my skinny jeans. I couldn’t zip up my regular jeans. I was living in yoga pants and a knit dress that I am now  tempted to burn.

Gross.

I’m doing that HCG diet, which I know is terrible and crazy and unhealthy, etcetera, but it works quickly (20 pounds and counting), and I have a deadline and a plane ticket to France.

Do you think they have s’mores in France?

Do you think there’s such a thing as a s’more wedding cake?

I better not know.

 

By |2013-08-20T00:51:31-07:00August 20th, 2013|Style|2 Comments
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