Original subtitles

See, this is the way I wanted the show to look.

Black and white, reminiscent of those great flutist French films like Pablo

Flambeau. You know, sort of unflappable, sort of sad, but fatalistic French

hero.

You know, every bad turn in life, just another throw of the dice.

A shrug and a c 'est normal.

But unfortunately, I've got a couple of big problems getting in the way of that

show. First...

Damn. Some Americans are starting to think the French suck.

But I think we may be looking at them in the wrong way, and thus not allowing

ourselves to experience the world.

What's the second you asked?

Unfortunately, this is television.

I'm Anthony Bourdain. I write, I travel, I eat, and I'm hungry

for more.

Get lost!

No reservations.

New York to Paris.

Seven hours.

Welcome aboard.

Welcome aboard the spacious cabin.

This is the atmosphere on a jet -clipper flight.

Delicious food adds to the enjoyment.

Karen, right away you're in the swim of things.

Because once more you've landed refreshed and with extra hours to do

want to do in a leisurely way.

Bullshit. The food was shockingly bad, even for an airplane.

The seats, forget about it. I feel like I've been chained to a radiator all

night. And now this?

Listen, I don't see anybody waiting for me, okay? I've been waiting here an

hour. I'm freezing my ass off.

I'm going to end up taking a cab.

All right? I'll talk to you when I get in.

Where's the guy who was supposed to meet me here?

Damn.

I'm here, an American in Paris, to find supporting evidence for a deeply felt

conviction. To make a difficult argument in these unpleasantly francophobic

times. I call my thesis, Why the French Don't Suck.

France needs me, I'm thinking, now more than ever.

Why me?

Because I'm a cook.

Now, don't get me wrong.

The last thing Paris needs is me slinging steak.

But as a cook, I like to think that I recognize the true visionary glory of

France.

Hell, cooks may be the only people in America right now who can understand how

far astray we've gone.

Sure, the French are renowned for their culinary technique and invention.

But even more crucial, more precious, is the sensual point of view behind it

that drives not only their cuisine, but their entire existence.

It may just save the world.

So here I am.

But where's this guy my French teacher was supposed to set me up with?

I wonder if this has anything to do with my performance in class back in New

York.

Things didn't exactly get off to a smooth start.

Comment dit -on, I have a hangover, please kill me?

J 'ai une gueule de bois, s 'il vous plaît, tuez -moi. Tuez -moi.

S 'il vous plaît, tuez -moi.

S 'il vous plaît, tuez -moi.

My French was a little rusty.

Okay, a lot rusty. So I signed myself up for a refresher course.

Pardon me, but your baguette is poking me in the genitals.

You go to Paris, you're at the top of the Eiffel Tower, you eat, all the

tourists go. It's a very good restaurant.

It's a French restaurant for tourists.

Listen, you're here to learn French, not to discuss the quality of restaurants,

anyway.

Okay, so how was I supposed to know this guy had a brother who works there?

I'm not sure I impressed him with my command of the language.

I mean, I did my best to apologize.

After all I explained, I wanted to explore the Paris of locals.

You know, show my countrymen why the French don't fuck.

But I'm beginning to think that my guide is going to be a no -show.

No problem. I'll do this on my own.

Page 54 in the guidebook.

Paris, France's 2 ,000 -year -old capital.

The Eiffel Tower, Champs -Élysées, the Louvre, Notre -Dame. Check in your

but get in line for the tower early after making dinner reservations in

Wrong. Let's try that again.

Ah, Paris.

City of light.

City of love.

City of breakfast?

Yes, please.

The most important thing to do the instant you arrive in Paris is stop.

Find someplace inviting and flip comfortably into the Parisian pace of

The Royale, a typical neighborhood café in the 7th district, isn't going to

attract a rush of tourists.

But it's the kind of local place that's a mandatory staple in the daily routine

of the Parisians.

I mean, how come they're still in possession by a larger neck than

short supply in my country?

I mean, they eat so well.

Duck fat.

Cream. Butter.

How do you explain this?

These are typically French healthy breakfasts.

All the essential components of a healthy breakfast.

Orange juice.

Coffee.

Quite small, and of course... Buttery, flaky, offset with tarry, nicotine -y

goodness. Remember, kids, cigarettes can kill.

Let's face it, do you really need a Denny's grand final breakfast? A big

pancakes, bacon, two fried eggs, home fries. And let's face it, home fries

aren't that good anyway. Especially when you're looking forward to a monster

-sized lunch.

French dinners stretch out breakfast, too.

Put in an hour doing this, easy.

People watching, pet the dog, read the paper.

Take those typical young French lads over there, for example.

They have an appreciation for life in the moment.

It's important to sit still, to take time, to notice the simple things.

Damn, I think they made me.

Oh yeah, they noticed me. Probably want my article.

I'm published here, you know.

I better leave before I get mobbed by fans.

I'm big in France.

Well, okay, not exactly Jerry Lewis big. Maybe Mickey Rourke big.

Hasselhoff big?

Now be careful.

Since you've slowed down, you'll start to notice all sorts of things around

Once you allow your senses to guide you and not your itinerary, you may begin to

find pleasure in many things you would ordinarily overlook.

The many sights, smells, and tastes on the streets of Paris.

You try not to get run over while gawking at things.

It's a dead giveaway you're an American.

You are now ready to begin to graze through the wondrous sensual feasts that

elude so many of us when we take trips here.

But first, you'll need a base of operations, like a cool hotel haunted by

ghost of the dead writer who drank too much absinthe.

Allegedly, this illegal psychoactive beverage can still be found in certain

quarters. I fully intend to investigate.

Let's say you're like me. You're in Paris and you've undergone the necessary

attitude adjustments.

It helps to choose your accommodations wisely.

Some place with character.

Some place with history. In a cool neighborhood that looks good.

Me, I always stay at L 'Hôtel in the Saint -Germain -des -Prés.

A very discreet joint known for being a love shack to the tragically hip for

ages. Even more importantly, it has the necessary distinction of having had

famous people die there.

In 1900, author Oscar Wilde kicked the bucket in room 15.

The same room I'm staying in, in fact.

This was his last base of operations for a legendary three -year bender that

ended badly.

Oh well, I fully intend to honor Oscar Wilde's good example.

But first, a little shut -eye.

Okay,

first, leave your guidebook in your hotel.

It's very unfresh.

Pleasure is found in unexpected places.

Just let it happen.

I feel, not unusually for me, a natural compulsion to seek out the dark side,

the forbidden, which is to say, the good stuff.

I need a drink.

This place looks strangely familiar. I like my kind of place.

Follow your instincts. That's what I always say. What could possibly go

A whiskey?

American?

My accent give me away?

Pretty easily.

It's an absence sound.

Really? Yeah. This is the beverage that allegedly drove people insane into

dissipation, suicide, despair, and murder?

Yeah, a fun drink.

Oh, cool.

Yeah, I always make good bars. What's your name, man?

Peter. Tommy. Nice to meet you. I do the Nouveau Orleans.

Absinthe.

This is the legendarily destructive beverage tasting of licorice and exotic

aromatics.

Its bizarre, heroin -like ritual involving sugar and water not only

flavor, but results in a strange outcome.

With a change in color comes the release of the so -called Green Fairy.

Then, reputedly, a seductive fog of hallucinations caused by the

toxin in Wormwood.

It supposedly caused a whole generation of writers and artists to succumb to

madness and death.

It's still illegal to this day in the U .S.

When did the notion get to take hold that this was dangerous and unusual

It was toward the end of the 19th century.

Between 1880 and 1910, you have what they called a collective binge.

Because it's just too damn easy to drink.

And that's where the spoon comes in with the sugar, because when you add sugar

to absinthe, you sense the alcohol in it even less.

Because... Absinthe was so high in alcohol, it was considered to be the bad

of all of them. So, what about the hallucinations? The madness?

Was it just garden variety alcoholism?

It does have a chemical in it which can cause epileptic fits.

But the amount that you have to take is equivalent to somewhere around 200

glasses. I think we will fall well short of that.

All right.

Oh, yeah, I see the problem. It's like drinking lemonade, basically.

You're looking at about 20%, 25 % alcohol.

Tomorrow, as I wake up in a pool of my own vomit, the first words out of my

mouth will be, Mmm, licorice.

At least you'll have nice breath.

That's so important.

You can't say that with tequila in the morning.

Yeah. Are there still original bottles around?

It's very, very difficult to find, but I happen to have a couple of them.

Oh, really?

I do.

As it turns out, this guy Peter is an artisanal absinthe distiller.

He explains he can buy absinthe in stores all over France.

Well, not all absinthe.

He takes me to a friend's shop to try a bottle of the original old stuff, which

is still illegal even in France.

This is a bottle that dates from about 1910.

Now, is this technically legal? The product that we have in the bottle there

technically not legal.

European laws only allow newly produced absinthe. The old stuff keeps its bad

reputation. Cool.

Breaking the law. Breaking the law. Okay, I'm psyched.

First of all, you're going to see that the color is a nice kind of deep amber,

almost a whiskey color, but originally that absence was green.

A fog is formed in the absence when the water mixes with its essential oils.

It will start from the bottom of the glass and then work its way up.

This is what gave rise to the idea of the fairy leaving the drink.

I don't know why, I suddenly feel like I have to go to the bathroom.

Nice and strong.

It's not bitter at all.

Light, herbal flavors are mixed with more earthy ones like anise and fennel.

It's a happiness.

Eight or nine glasses of absinthe later, who was really counting anyway, I

stumble out to find it raining. So I catch a taxi, an easy way to get around

Paris.

As the city outside the windshield becomes awash of color and light, I feel

good. I feel really good.

And I remember thinking something like, I feel a bit lightheaded.

I wonder if it's the absinthe. Damn it, did I just think that or say it?

Trouble sleeping back at the hotel.

Maybe I shouldn't have drank so much absinthe.

It occurs to me that I'm here just after the anniversary of Oscar Wilde's death.

As he lay here dying, he said, my wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to

death. One of us has got to go.

Oscar was an absent thinker.

Oscar?

I'm starting to feel a little strange.

Maybe I shouldn't have drank so much.

Another

great

feature of Lotte, a basement pool, perfect for clearing your head.

After bobbing around for 20 or 30 minutes and some quiet reflection, I

know what will set me right.

Tomorrow, a gargantuan meal at a hundred -year -old bistro. A typical Parisian

lunch.

What the?

Hey, look out!

I definitely need something to take the edge off.

To the French, the senses are everything.

They're almost the sole reason for human existence, and of particular importance

is the sense of taste.

Today, I hope to better explain the origins of this enlightened philosophy.

That is, if my own senses aren't already too numb.

Uh, isn't it supposed to be April when you come to Paris?

See Tony, see Tony confused, standing around, breezy.

You need a hot chocolate and a couple of flat chicks.

I'm cold.

Being determined to carry on, I decide to visit what I humbly consider to be

of the most historically significant spots in all of Western civilization.

So here we are, all that's left of Lael.

once the thriving and rather incredible central marketplace of Paris.

It was a groundbreaking, revolutionary development of centralizing the market

into ales, or the closest word I can think of are pavilions, these vast

iron and glass structures, each one dedicated to a different type of food.

you'd have the meat pavilion, produce, hooves, guts, and snouts pavilion. I

cannot describe to you how huge the original ales was. I mean, endless

subcellars and underground vaults. Above ground, avenues would radiate out for

horse -drawn carts.

It would stretch all the way out into the countryside and beyond.

Sola referred to it as the belly of Paris.

Prior to that, by the way, it was where they lopped off the heads of the

aristocracy on the guillotine. This was a big public square where hordes of

hooting proletariat would watch the heads roll in the baskets.

Those were happier times.

You know, if Enron had existed back in the mid -18th century, they'd lop

their... and heads off in public.

You know, if you close your eyes, imagine you can almost hear the

roar of the crowd as yet another royalist head falls off the guillotine

rolls into the basket.

Whether you've had a hard day chopping off heads or just slicing up beef,

work up a mean appetite.

So small bistros sprang up all around layout.

Bistros like the 100 -year -old Chez Denise.

Necessity is the engine that has driven all great cuisines throughout history.

While the dumbass aristocracy was gorging itself on filet mignon lobsters,

masses had to learn how to cook, how to take a chunk of neck or shank and turn

it into something magical. And over pots of... Deeming economy cuts, they

planned a revolution.

Well, today at Chez Denise, they proudly continue the tradition of serving these

historic blue -collar creations.

I love my job.

I'll drink a whole bottle and then we'll go terrorize Johnny Depp. So, dude,

like, why'd you move to, like, France, man?

I'm sure he'd appreciate that, don't you?

Now look closely.

When you're eating in France, you'll notice something different.

It's a far cry from what we so often find ourselves doing, joylessly chawing

our food like unappreciative doomed cattle.

To the French, a meal is not just a meal. It means something.

There's a dialogue between the chef, the dish, and the diner.

There's a look of excitement as the food arrives, of anticipation.

Food is important.

It's part of their collective history.

Voilà, mon ami.

Look at this. This is lunch for work. Okay, this is like ginormous. So this is

blanquette de veau, blanquette de veau blanc, meaning white.

Look at those big hunks of veal, slowly, slowly cooked in either stock.

or more often than not, water. The sauce is enriched with cream, sometimes egg.

I'm guessing this recipe has basically not changed in over 100 years.

Man, is that good.

See, for me, this was the true and enduring glory of perhaps this kind of

You know, the hell with painfully stacked towers of foie gras, food

tormented into metal rings so it stands up stiff.

If it takes the waiter longer to describe the dish than it takes me to

something's wrong here.

Oh, yeah,

that's a ticket.

12 .45.

I've already eaten, like, by volume. It's like a small economy car.

Half a bottle of wine, a fairly good portion of rum.

I'm guessing that late in the afternoon, productivity levels declined slightly.

Certainly by the time everyone drinks their digestif, because in France, they

believe quite correctly that spirits aid digestion.

Not bad.

As I digest, my waiter, you know, mon ami, suggests that I might like to see

their wine cellar. And the bartender insists that I climb down below the

restaurant. Okay.

Okay.

There's a lot of folklore associated with a spot like this because a lot of

underground walls.

It's very, very old. Very old.

We're talking like 1500s here, dude. In case of war, we can drink.

Now that's French.

And at a perfect 52 degrees year -round, all these rare bottles of wine will

last indefinitely.

But the ground below Paris has been used for more than wine storage.

In the 1780s, it was overflowing with corpses. It got so bad, they moved the

remains of millions of dead Parisians to underground quarries known as

catacombs.

It's Joan Rivers.

Apparently, they missed a few. Lara Flynn Boyle.

A garçon?

A waiter?

Denise?

Something smells like... I'm in the sewers.

I wonder if this has anything to do with me being American.

I wonder if they're still pissed about the whole Freedom Fries thing.

There's actually a group of people called the Cataphiles who wander around

here for fun.

There are over 1 ,300 miles of sewer tunnels, 124 miles of subway tracks, 185

miles of catacombs filled with dead bodies.

And they crisscross randomly.

They say the Nazis built secret bunkers down here during the occupation.

So, Paris is where?

Ah, look, the entrance to the public sewer museum.

Oh well, at least I'm up at the perfect hour to explore Rungis Market. That's

the modern replacement for Layal.

And it's game season, and that means fur, feathers, and fleece.

After a night spent wandering witlessly through the ooze of the Parisian sewer

system, I've emerged into that tranquil quiet between the retiring of the night

owls and the rising of the morning workers, when all Paris sleeps.

Unless, that is, you work in the food industry.

Oh yeah, 5 .30 in the morning. Here we are, the romantic part of town.

Rungis Market.

The new belly of Paris, where the food comes from.

This is the modern replacement for the historic but overburdened Layal Market.

After hosing down, I get outfitted with the latest in mandatory meat market

chic.

Hi, I'm Anthony Bourdain for Scott Tissue.

Triple fly baby for comfort.

Don't have a square to spare?

No problem with the latest Parisian fashion.

I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV.

Where's my rubber gloves? I really feel like I should be going to nap.

Turn left and cough.

One of my constant complaints with my countrymen is that on vacation we so

travel like sheep, blissfully allowing ourselves to be herded from location to

location during prescribed hours.

Never having meal fun.

or seeing the real thing.

But if you really want to understand the soul of a people, sometimes you just

have to get up early and get away from the tour bun.

The best place to do that is almost always the market.

So when Lael closed, this became the new belly of Paris. This is the more modern

version, essentially.

Exactly. Pretty much set up the same way. You've got a lot of the same

lot of the same families who've been there forever, and they just moved over

here now.

Louisa is a fellow cook currently working at a bunch of three -star joints

in Paris and someone uniquely suited to show me around Rungy.

The amazing thing is that they said that they pretty much closely all moved

everything in one night. One night? We're talking 15 ,000 employees with

millions of tons of food, occupying 1 .2 square miles.

In France, food distribution is a calling. It better be fresh, it better

good, and it better be furry. Wild boar.

I'm shocked that it can come in still in the fur.

Yeah? They look mean.

Yeah. These guys will charge you, I'm told.

You do not want one of these things gnawing on your calf or any other part

your body.

The fur means freshness.

Has four legs, slower and stupider than you, and tastes reasonably good.

It has the salt.

I love how they package it for the holidays, you know. Let's put it this

kids. If your presents are a little late this year, now you know why.

Santa cut Rudolph's head off.

Bad Santa.

Okay, before I get 6 ,000 letters from animal rights activists, I humbly

the French are much more respectful than we are.

They don't waste here. They respect the ingredients. This is not factory farm

food.

I like the plumage. I know.

Oh, yeah.

Those are beautiful.

Here, food is not something meant to be shrink -wrapped into anonymous parcels.

identifiable only by pre -printed labels.

It's something to be respected and celebrated for what it is.

Really just here at the good time because it's really like... Right in the

of game season. Exactly, exactly.

We don't really have this kind of seasonality in American meat markets.

You know, it's game season. Time to eat game. A lot of game.

That's very French.

You know, ye what's good when it's good.

Pigeon. Little known fact, pigeons you see in New York, in your local park,

originally imported to America as food. And they're quite delicious.

I'm a little hungry.

And I'm guessing that breakfast around here, I'm guessing meat is involved.

I'm up for the roast beef sandwich.

Okay, me too.

Welcome to Butcherland, Paris' only all -meat worker bar in the fashionable

Rungy's Market District.

Open late till 9 a .m. Don't forget your bloody apron.

Another prime example of eating what's good where it's good.

We're in a gigantic warehouse full of premium meat.

So, what do you think's on the breakfast menu?

Oh yeah, that is the breakfast of champions.

Cheers. Cheers.

That's a healthy breakfast.

You're fucking curious.

See, this really is a mood improver, I've got to tell you. And I can use my

jacket as a napkin.

What's French about this room?

Literally from the ground up, you know, the floor is like covered with cigarette

butts. I mean, the fact that there is just such conviviality, you know.

There's not much of a sense of urgency out there.

But in here, they're freaking out. Where's my wine?

Give me my sandwich.

Drinking wine at...

7 o 'clock in the morning. It is after work for most of these guys. Well, no,

this is during work. I'm like, if I was a guy running one of the stalls out

there, I'd be like, what are you doing in there drinking wine? But they're all

totally cool about it, and they're probably in here with their bosses, and

bosses probably realize that it's a good thing for them to have a glass of wine

or two.

Oh, yeah.

The day stretches out before me in a much more favorable light now.

Parisians understandably tend to get sentimental when thinking back on the

original layout marketplace.

But it did have a darker side.

A nasty little problem that contributed to its demise.

In a word, rats.

Lots of rats.

Hi, I'm Rocco Dispirito. I'd like to invite you to my new theme restaurant.

Rat Kebab, Rat Zeroni, Rat Tattooie, and it's all here.

Braised, broiled.

Grilled. Be sure to drop by our all -you -can -eat mouse bar. You'll get your

choice of dressing.

And by the way, those aren't currants. Those are mouse droppings.

Rocco's. Rats -a -rific restaurant.

It's rat -a -licious.

10 p .m. The Parisian dinner hour.

And you're hungry.

So, how do you begin to dine like they do?

Stop playing by your own rules.

It's a common traveler's dilemma.

You hear about a local joint that you've just got to check out, and well, you

hesitate. You don't have the thunk. It's not easy pushing your way through the

front door of some new place.

You don't know what waits for you.

Is it going to be one of those cowboy moments where you walk in and everybody

turns around and looks at you? You can't turn on your heels then and say, oop,

wrong place and leave.

You're in.

But once in, especially in a place like Chez Robert and Louise, you're rewarded

with a truly local experience.

Sadly, Robert has passed away, but Madame Louise still quietly carries on

many -year legacy of cooking home -style country food.

I'm joined by my Parisian friend, Alex, just back from a trip abroad and hungry

for a taste of home. Alex, is this an unusual arrangement? Is this type of

place? Is this old school?

It's old school. It's the bastion of French culinary tradition.

I mean, it would be impossible to have a business like this in the States. A

wood -burning fire.

Illegal. The meat? Illegal. The dog?

Illegal. The jeans sitting out uncovered?

Illegal. Basically, everything that makes this place good.

would be illegal in this state.

It's always been the same, and it's just their simplicity and the traditional

cuisine that they cook is the key to their success.

Chefs play this game where they ask each other, what would be your last meal on

death row?

Almost always, the answer is something simple and hearty that mom made.

Well... Here they serve what little French boys wanted for dinner. That is

really sexy looking.

This is boudin noir. It's basically a blood sausage made from pig's blood and

onions.

Crispy on the outside. And it's almost creamy in the center.

Frightening to the uninitiated, but man, once you eat it, you're hooked. And

this is fromage de tête, which is, well, head cheese.

You basically cook your pig's head and you strip off all the meat, the tongue,

everything. And you pack it into a tureen.

with some aspic. There you go.

Aspic is a clear meat jelly or gelatinized broth.

This is seriously old school.

You're not going to find this next to the jalapeno poppers at TGI McFunster's.

Oh, good.

It's basically a massive rib steak for two.

And a little celery here, a little gray sea salt.

I guess the potatoes are cooked with wheat grease.

And that's the best.

This is my idea of the perfect plate. In a wooden cutting board with a little

gutter in it for the blood to run into.

The whole plate should be like this.

I love this whole notion of, you know, the dark street, no big sign, you know,

curtains drawn out front, step inside your room, you're in another world. I

mean, this is the way to eat. It's about food.

Lucky to be born a Frenchman.

Welcome to the booth.

Sometimes you see the uninviting door and just have to go through it.

3 a .m.

What to do?

What to do?

Not quite ready to go back to the hotel and tangle with Oscar Wilde again.

Let's see, who's up at this hour?

I smell fresh bread bacon.

Bacon.

Is there anything more emblematic, more sinful to France's greatness than the

appreciation of long, thin, crusty loaves of brilliantly made bread?

The baguette.

There's only two things wrong with bakers. One, I can't do what they do.

two, they get up too damn early in the morning.

The things to do, a good cup of coffee.

My coffee is very bottom.

Boulangers, that's bakers to you, live life in the shadows, toiling away in the

pre -dawn hours.

They're a passionate breed.

Pascal Pinot is a prime example.

Excuse me, I didn't take my medicine this morning.

He has not taken his Valium.

Pascal worked as a chef instructor at the world -renowned Cordon Bleu.

left to open up a bakery with his brother, Jean -Marc. Jean -Marc is a

businessman. A little bit he's the brain, and I am the hand.

This is a man with a calling to make great pastries and great bread.

Look where the dough starts right there.

Notice that bakers always have big upper body strength, big arms and shoulders

and forearms.

While drunk and belligerent, never mess with a baker.

Once they get their thumbs around your neck, you're toast.

Getting hungry, dude.

The big shop at school, everybody gained like eight pounds.

Because you're starving first thing in the morning, you haven't had anything.

It starts being really cold.

In France, the most popular is...

It's the baguette. This kind of baguette is a traditional baguette.

We're following the whole process.

Last night, dough was made.

The whole batch of dough.

Scaled today.

Formed.

Approved. The individual lows allowed to rise.

How many baguettes do you sell every day?

About 200.

Profit margin on bread is...

Finally, it goes me up.

I have to believe that money isn't Pascal's prime motivation.

It's probably the craze hell -bent focus on quality, on baking really good

bread. That must be what gets him out of bed at this obscene hour.

Cooking time is about 20 minutes.

That's got to be one of the best smells on earth.

This is a mystery about the French that I'm always curious about.

They always know when the bread is coming out.

I never know the schedule, but the French always know.

It's like crackhead for the Parisian out there. It's like, where is it?

Where is it?

It takes a special person to make the very simple thing correctly.

That's worth waiting for. That's good.

So beautiful.

Bread is existential for the French.

I eat bread, therefore I am.

Not just a piece of bread.

It's a piece of bread.

It's no accident that the institution, the café, is so closely associated with

the French.

What do we have here? We have a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich.

Basically, a row of chairs all pointing in one direction.

A little table staring out into the street.

What a simple thing. Sit in a chair and observe the simplest of life's

pleasures.

And yet, for most Parisians, or many Parisians, this can be an afternoon's

entertainment. And I think this gets right to the kernel of what

the french what are the french famous for perfume that smells good sense of

smell food that tastes good sense of taste art architecture visual

sense okay there's really no explanation for their crap pop music but you know

three out of four is not bad these are all matters of defensive just their

attitude towards pleasure and sensuality and food in general being the best

example

In the English -speaking world, there's always been a certain ambivalence about

taking pleasure at the table.

There's been this notion, this puritanical notion, that if you take too

pleasure in your food, that it might somehow lead to bad character, might

to harder stuff, like sex, for instance.

I think the French have always understood that, yeah, hell yeah, it

sex, and it should.

That residual sense of food being good, food being important, food being worth

waiting for, and food being worth spending time with, eating,

is and should be a joyous occasion.

As should the use of all your senses.

So America, perhaps you should try it.

Maybe duck out of the office when the boss isn't looking, or call in sick for

that boring meeting.

Pull up a chair at a local joint, grab a tasty beverage, and eat a ham sandwich.

Really eat a ham sandwich.

You just may find you not only love the French again, but you may also love

life, and ultimately the world.