By Agnes Desarthe
At forty-three, Myriam has been a spouse, mom, and lover—but by no means a restauranteur. while she opens Chez Moi in a quiet local in Paris, she has no concept tips on how to run a company, yet armed merely together with her love of cooking, she is set to attempt. slightly in a position to pay the lease, Myriam secretly sleeps within the eating room and bathes within the kitchen sink, whereas suffering to return to phrases with the painful stories of her prior. yet quickly sufficient her delectable delicacies brings her many friends to Chez Moi, and Myriam reveals that she may well get a moment probability at lifestyles and love. Redolent with the points of interest, smells, and tastes of Paris, Chez Moi is an enthralling tale that may attract the various readers who fell in love with Joanne Harris’s Chocolat and Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate.
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I got its warnings and said, yes, yes, I know, I’m going to break everything; but it was too late. ’ Charles asks me. ‘Why do you call it a dive? ’ I feel as if I’ve opened a brothel. ’ ‘Nothing. As usual. Rubbish. ’ That is absolutely exactly the sound my father makes because he decided a long time ago that muttering was all the world deserved from him. I smile. ’ My life suddenly hangs on my parents’ opinions. ‘She said… hang on, I’m going to get it right, are you ready for this, I’m letting her come to me for a minute, just wait…’ He concentrates, closes his eyes, screws them up slightly and when he opens them again he is my mother.
How could I not have guessed? And was it for free? And could everyone have it? And was it really that easy? So easy? I didn’t think about not being on the pill, or that the boy hadn’t used a condom, that I might get pregnant or catch God knows what. I just thought this is crazy. And while all this was going on the Beatles sang ‘Norwegian Wood’. How come we live several different lives? Maybe I’m generalizing a bit. Maybe I’m the only one who feels like this. I will only die once and yet, during the time I’m allotted, I will have lived a series of related but clearly distinct existences.
It’s a waste because most people leave it on the side of the plate, shrivelled and pathetic as if it were a failed garnish. Still, I press on with my attempted trans-categorization: I feel it’s what the various foodstuffs expect of me, what I’m supposed to give to the world. Rocket with meat. Avocados with fruit. White wine with cheese. I realign friendships, cheat at Happy Families. I don’t know how they do the lighting here. I can’t see any lamps and there isn’t a single candle, and yet there’s light melting over us or, rather, we’re melting into it.