Writer Ernest Hemingway was born on July 21, 1899 in Oak Park, Illinois. One of the first books I ever read by him remains my favorite: A Moveable Feast, Hemingway’s memoir of his early years in Paris from 1921–26. In his honor I am reprinting a post I wrote in 2015 about the magic that is Paris. – Jadi
As someone who believes in freedom of thought and speech, I was horrified by the 2015 attacks in Paris. I’m only a few train hours away and visit there gladly. The murders were way too close to where I live, on every single literal and metaphoric level you care to mention.
Uwe and I spent our honeymoon here. We visited eight museums in three days with our city pass and rewarded ourselves with great meals every evening. My husband has business trips to Paris, and sometimes I meet him before or afterwards. On the last trip we dined in a small restaurant where I ordered a meal that came with french fries. One bite, and I knew I was tasting something I’d read about but never had the pleasure of trying: potatoes fried in duck fat. They were sublime.
On another trip the Metro was on strike. We decided not to wait on the platform for a crowded city train. Instead, we went to a bistro with tables so tiny and close together that Uwe and I bumped knees under ours. A portly man sat at the next table with a salad that included slices of pear and fois gras on toast points. Beside his plate was a half carafe of house wine and a carafe of water. An entire fish baked on fennel halves arrived. He expertly dissected the fish and ordered more wine.
My salade nicoise was salty with anchovies. I watched waiters make their way through the packed bistro, food trays held above their heads. The patrons were businessmen and women, students, and families with small children. Not a seat was free. When we left, my neighbor had a platter of cheeses in front of him and showed no signs of slowing eating. I was sorry we had to leave before he got dessert.
My friend Shaun met me for a week one year. We washed lettuce in the bathroom sink of our obnoxiously small apartment. Warning to future travelers to Paris, triple check when a holiday rental promises it has a real working kitchen! This kitchen was two burners in a closet. [1] But we sat on a park bench and shared a cheese crepe we’d bought from a vendor on the street. She introduced me to (and got me hooked on) vibrant, dry Sancerres. And we ordered steak and pommes frites from the menu written on a little chalk board in a café with red checked table cloths and candles in wine bottles. We found that place by walking a block past the tourist spots.
Once I traveled to Paris with my sisters and our friend Chris. Paris with three artists is daunting. We went to one museum per day and I’d watch as all three of them sketched madly in concentration. Then we’d go shopping for ingredients to cook that night. A moveable feast indeed.
If Bangkok is the most sexual city I’ve ever been to, Paris is the most sensual. A simple omelette is a marvel, with beaten eggs of impossibly silky texture. Pastries nestle in windows. Each bakery, patisserie, café and place to eat calls out “Come here, mon petit!”
And, like any wise lover of food, I go. Je mange Paris.
In memory of Ernest Miller Hemingway, July 21, 1899 – July 2, 1961
NOTES: [1] You read that correctly. The kitchen was two burners in a closet and a miniature sink too small to wash a head of lettuce. [2] For a more political response to the attacks, I refer you to cartoonist Robert Crumb’s answer. robert-crumb-on-the-massacre-in-paris/ ©2015 Jadi Campbell. Previously published as The Fork is Mightier Than the Sword. A Post in Which I Eat Paris. All photos © Uwe Hartmann. More pictures from New Zealand and Uwe’s photography may be viewed at viewpics.de.
I am a Best American Essays-nominated writer. My award-listed books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded, The Trail Back Out, and The Taste of Your Name. My most recent book,
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