Lunch in Paris: A Love Story with Recipes by Elizabeth Bard / Review

 I love a memoir about a spunky girl moving to a different culture and learning to cope. (Just look at my reading list; it’s true.)

Elizabeth Bard’s Lunch in Paris is just another in a long line of memoirs I love. As a grad student in England, Bard meets Gwendal (pronounced Gwen-DAL), a Frenchman with a passion for cinema. What begins as weekend trysts en Paris becomes marriage and a proper expatriotism to Paris. Bard recounts eight years in Paris — from the time she had her first lunch with Gwendal to their marriage, learning to cook, and buying an apartment.  It’s sort of Under the Tuscan Sun in Paris.

Although Bard’s memoir might not be purely original (there are many other excellent memoirs in this genre, not the least of which is Julia Child’s delightful My Life in France), it is a lovely, light read — especially as I fell passionately in love with Paris this winter and was delighted to travel its streets and cafes again with Bard.  Bard is heartfelt — she doesn’t skip the difficulties of being an American in France. She doesn’t glorify Paris beyond its deserts (see the episode where a snarky French shoe salesman refuses to accept her return). And, of course, she made me giggle. Here she butchers her first fish:

“I took the knife and pressed its pointed tip into the belly of the fish. I hesitated, searching for something civilized to think about during my upcoming act of brutality. Had Jane Austen ever gutted a fish?

The knife made a ripping sound, like an uncooperative zipper.

It is a truth universally acknowledged…

I had a hold of something now, soft and dense, like a clot of blood.

…that a single man in possession of a good fortune,…

I pulled out the tiny heaert and liver.

…must be in want of a wife.

I yanked out the final membrane, guts dripping from my hands” (68-69).

I really enjoyed Lunch in Paris, and I read it in one sitting. It’s a great example of a genre I love — excellent for summer reading!

Tags: Elizabeth Bard, Lunch in Paris, Review