The Great Divide - In Paris
It's not Romance, I just don't understand you
Each time I visit Paris I further entangle myself in the saccharine Romance of the city, whether that Romance is found on a park bench under a softened reality in a haze of a glorious hangover, or at the lit end of ‘just one more’ cigarette, or in the moment a past lover’s kiss becomes familiar once again — synchronicity and chance melting into something that resembles love, just for one moment.
I will never pass as a Parisian. Between my inability to speak the language, my potent American sensibility to care a little too much in comparison to the typical blasé French attitude, and my lack of a nose for wine (I wrongly voiced my opinion on a ‘lactic’ note in a blind tasting of a Beaujolais the other night - and was subsequently berated and promptly presented with an espresso cup full of fresh cut strawberries to negate my nose’s ill informed opinion) — I will never quite fit in here. I’ve accepted this fact. Despite this, Paris has shaped much of who I’ve become in my late 20’s - I’ve stumbled in and out (and back in again) of romances here, and have developed both my palate and a growing community of friends here. Another circle closing in on itself here — with my first pop-up in Paris this Monday, May 19.
Around one year ago I met some friends at a wine bar called Caprice in an attempt to overcome jet lag. The bar had just opened the week prior and the owners were nothing but kind, pouring us shots and welcoming me back to Paris. One year later, chef pal Tori Sharp (of the incredible Alphabet Soup Substack) mentioned she was down to work on something together in Paris. The first wine bar I reached out to was Caprice, and to my surprise they were thrilled to work with us.
2024 and the first half of 2025 have been full of milestones and victories big and small, and this first pop-up in Paris just feels right. So if you’re around, come hang. Drink some wine and order some good food - we’ll be cooking from 6pm / 18hr till we sell out. Feel free to make a res via a dm to Caprice’s IG account.
Anyway,
I’m partly writing this from the apartment of someone I once held a torch for. She’s in the south of France for work at the moment, so this gorgeous apartment in the heart of Pigalle is all mine for the next two weeks. Glittering with sex shops and cabaret clubs for those with more sordid tendencies, Pigalle is a live wire until the early morning hours. Her place is a peaceful respite in the chaos of Pigalle, in a strange way I feel as I’m getting to know her more by spending so much time in her home, alone. Stacks of art books and classics are laid out in the living room, whereas a hint of eroticism lies in her bedroom books - Anaïs Nin and Annie Ernaux. Each morning I wake up in a bath of sunlight, make a cup of coffee with her Moka pot (my preferred method too), and force myself to write from her dining room table. It’s a unique way to learn someone, but I’ll take it over not knowing.
Last night I attended a dinner party put on by Dinner Collection — it unfolded in a stunning artist loft in Montreuil, with a color packed menu by my incredibly talented chef friend Mathilde Deniau. For the amount of time I spend in Paris, my French is, um, non existent. But being in a flurry of very kind French speakers who were kind enough to translate for me made it possible to walk away from the night with many new friends & a few lessons learned.
I’ve spent most of my visits to Paris with the intention of being alone, but over time often find myself assimilating into various friend groups every night. The great divide, this glaring issue of not knowing the language wasn’t much of an issue at first, my English speaking privilege allowing me to dip in and out of conversation as I please. But as I grow closer to friends and lovers here, there’s a sadness that accompanies my relationships, knowing there’s a critical layer of intimacy that might not ever be broken.
Months ago I sat in a shitty NYC wine bar with someone I met in Paris, and naturally — had a complicated relationship with. He monologued on and on about how unhappy he’d been in a brief relationship with an American girl; he was annoyed by her reliance on Amazon, the fact she used a Nespresso machine, and her lack of care with a steadily rising credit card bill. When he chalked up the demise to “cultural differences,” I laughed in his face.
“The glaring cultural difference here is you cheating on her.”
In a pure coincidence, I now write this portion from the same bar he and I first met.
On second thought — maybe I’m alright with this Great Divide.
I’m a mere five days into this month-long trip through (mostly) France — in an effort to revitalize Romance I’ve lost sight of with my nose to the grindstone in New York.
I’ll do my best to be a reliable narrator, despite the brunt of my words being fueled by wine and not enough food. If I’m a bit too cynical in the face of dealing with French ‘romanticism’ - be easy on me.
And what does this have to do with food? Everything.
Why else am I here?
