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 notion how you can run a company, yet armed in basic terms along with her love of cooking, she is set to attempt. slightly capable of pay the hire, Myriam secretly sleeps within the eating room and bathes within the kitchen sink, whereas suffering to return to phrases with the painful thoughts of her previous. yet quickly adequate her delectable delicacies brings her many associates 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 a captivating tale that would entice the numerous readers who fell in love with Joanne Harris’s Chocolat and Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate.
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Extra info for Chez Moi
I feel honoured, but at the same time I think their consideration for me is quite natural; this is a dream, remember. I take their order and that brings on more worrying: Paul McCartney wants fish fingers (I forgot to say they all speak very good French, without a trace of an accent). Fish fingers don’t feature on my menu and I immediately hate myself for the arrogant way I put my menus together. What makes so-called serious food, dishes that are meant to be refined - cod loin in blackberry jus with wild mushrooms, millefeuilles of lamb and aubergines, torte of mascarpone with grapes and cognac - what makes them any more worthy of being served at Chez moi?
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.
There’s no coffee left in our cups. We can’t pretend to drink one last mouthful. ’ Vincent asks me. He could have driven a knife into my heart and the pain wouldn’t have been more acute. I clench my jaw, don’t say anything. Can’t say anything. He gets up and casts an eye over the room. ’ he asks, taking one of the thirty-three volumes I’ve lined up on a shelf opposite the banquette. ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther,’ he intones. ‘That can’t be much fun. And what’s this, The Wild Palms? Is that English or German?