My First French Dinner

An American In France

I traveled to France for the first time more than a decade ago.

My client, let's call her Madame K, flew me to Paris at the end of October for a public relations collaboration.

After dropping my bags at the flat, Mme took me on a bit of a whirlwind walking tour past the Louvre, into the Tuileries, over to the Grand Palais for a fascinating modern art show, and deep into the 2nd arrondissement, where we had a truffle-infused meal that I will never forget.

Falling In Love With Lutèce

Before saying goodnight, Madame K pressed a ten-pack of metro tickets into my hand and explained that there was a special dinner event we would be attending later in the week. Otherwise, I was on my own.

I understood that Mme was there to escort me through the week-long experience. Instead, I spent my evenings researching how to navigate the Paris metro, which stops, and where I needed to go and spent most of my days alone & lost.

And, lost amongst the rues of Paris, tripping over cobblestones and gawking in wide-eyed wonder, I fell in love with Lutèce.

Halloween In Paris

On October 31st, Madame K and I arrived in the Saint-Germain-des-Pres quartier. It was 7 PM, and as the elevator whisked us up to the fourth floor of a stunning ancient building, my stomach had butterflies. I could barely say hello and goodbye in French. How was I going to navigate this dinner party?

Mme explained that her partner's brother-in-law owned the flat. He and his wife were interior designers for the rich and royal, including the Prince of Dubai. The doors slid open, and I stepped out into their apartment. The flat took up the entire fourth floor of the building. Mr. and Mrs. Interior Designer graciously welcomed me into their Parisian home.

The evening started with aperitifs in the salon. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases graced an expansive space with huge windows that opened to views of Saint-Germain.

A vintage cocktail cart was wheeled out as guests began to arrive. Being Americans, we showed up right on time, but the French more appropriately started to trickle in between 7:15 and 7:45 PM.

At one point, Mrs. ID swept up beside me, and in her halting English, she asked if I would like to see the dining room. Their flat was so large that it had a separate formal dining space, with a table that easily seated ten people and cupboards hiding exquisite china & silver built into the walls.

Barbie In Paris

Mrs. ID couldn't help herself. Giggling and gushing, she bubbled brightly as she pointed out the massive centerpiece on the table. "I looked everywhere for a pumpkin and carved it just for you, Shannon. It is Halloween in the United States today, non?" I blushed a bit over the thoughtfulness of this kind gesture.

Around 9 PM, everyone moved to the dining room, and Mrs. ID assigned us seats. At the table was an arms dealer, a professional cellist, an internationally recognized artist, a Sorbonne professor, a hotelier - and me. As we all settled in, the arms dealer piped up down the table and bellowed at me, "Barbie, what do you think of Paris so far?" I wanted to melt into the gold-trimmed wallpaper, not just because of the embarrassment of his pet name, but because he was right. I stood out like a sore thumb with my blonde extensions, a thick layer of MAC makeup, fake nails, and American-style clothing.

A Stunning Meal

It was my first exposure to the rather blunt way that the French can communicate. While Mr. Arms Dealer was purposely teasing me, the tell-it-as-you-see-it conversations you have with French friends and at intimate dinner parties were challenging for me at first. Now, I find it rather refreshing.

My new nickname stuck for the remainder of the night.

Dinner started with a lovely assortment of entrées (in the States, we call the main dish an entrée, but in France, that is the appetizer). Next was a lovely fresh pumpkin soup. The "plat," or main dish, was a delicious duck.

A simple palate-cleansing salad followed before the cheese course was served. After dessert, we all retired back to the salon for cocktails.

At this point, it was 2 AM. It is customary for a French dinner to last into the wee hours of the morning. Jet-lagged and exhausted from the previous day's work, I could feel my brain shutting down.

Any feeble attempt at sorting out conversations was now an utter waste. I blinked and stared blankly around the room as it appeared that instead of things winding down, the group was just getting started.

An Experience Of A Lifetime

As a natural introvert, the inner child was starting to throw a full-on temper tantrum - I was up well past my bedtime.

Whispering to Madame K, I asked if I could please excuse myself for the evening. She raised an eyebrow at me and then turned to the group, "Barbie is jet-lagged and tired. Say goodnight to her!"

The group erupted into a joyful French cacophony of bonne nuits and au revoirs as Mr. and Mrs. ID escorted me to their elevator front door. I thanked them endlessly for the invitation and experience as they pecked a little bisous on each cheek. "We hope to see you again," said Mr. ID. Sadly, that never came to pass - Mr. ID died a couple of years later, and Mrs. ID moved to the countryside to be close to family.

Merci beaucoup for reading this!

On the following pages, you'll find a few tips, menu suggestions, and ideas so that you can host your own French-inspired harvest dinner party. And, if nothing else, you'll now be a bit more prepared than I was for attending a dinner event in France! Bisous, darlings.