Hello Lovelies, I recently found this book on Instagram, written by four french women... now how cool is that. Written by Caroline de Maigret and her three best friends —a 39-year-old who loves mannish clothes, jackets, shirts, and pants galore. Karl Lagerfeld co-opted her as one of Chanel’s ambassadors; Lancôme has just asked her to package her mystique into a makeup line. She’s the living epitome of a Frenchwoman living in Paris with her husband (Yarol) and son (Anton).
|Author : Caroline de Maigret|
Jeans, anytime, anywhere, and any way. Take a Parisienne's jeans out of her closet and she feels stark naked.
Basic oversized sunglasses. Every day, even when it's raining, because you always have a reason to wear them: too bright out, a hangover, tears running down your face, a desire to be mysterious...
The very simple, but very expensive T-shirt. You're perfectly happy to give into the most common trends, as long as you can add a mark of luxury. As a result, you spend hours searching for the perfect T-shirt, whose finely woven and slightly transparent thread make it feel like cashmere.
|Sophie Mas, Anne Berest, Audrey Diwan and Caroline De Maigret.|
“Enjoy the face you have today. It’s the one you’ll wish you have 10 years from now.”
“Anticipate, prepare for the future, but never totally correct.”
“In truth, more than wanting to look young—which is but a fleeting illusion—they want above all to become the best possible version of themselves, outside and in, at any age”
“As your face gets messier with age, you hair can get neater, for balance.”
PARENTING LIKE A PARISIENNE
A Parisienne never hires a babysitter who is too pretty, always finding the less attractive one to be far more competent.
She often murmurs, with feigned discomfort, that she's a bit worried that her daughter is 'rather precocious'. It's her way of saying that her child is a genius - or that she takes after her mother.
She often pretends that her child is sick to get her out of dinner parties that will bore her to death. Then she feels guilty and worries that some god will actually make her baby ill to punish her for her lies.
La Ville LumièreAn excerpt from How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are: Love, Style, and Bad Habits
1:00 p.m.: First Date at the Café de Flore
She picks up the menu. Each time, the same thought crosses her mind: In her hands, this is more of a geographical map, an intimate and chaotic path through the jungle of her culinary neuroses, than a restaurant menu. She will have to battle her way without stumbling, and without looking like she’s asking herself too many questions.
No, wrong choice. She’ll just end up using the salmon as a pretext for eating all the blinis and crème fraîche. Her greed could end up on her hips.
Does this man sitting across from her realize how difficult it is to be a woman in this city? Probably not. But she doesn’t want to judge him too quickly.
Haricots verts salad
The problem with a first date is that her every gesture will take on a particular meaning. He’s watching her as if he’s filming her, recording her movements forever: the way in which she loses her phone in her large handbag, and that message on her voice mail she can’t help listening to in front of him. He is analyzing her. Disorganized, a tad nervous, compulsively sociable. One day, later on, he will find out that she weighs herself every morning, but for now, he must believe that her figure is simply nature’s gift. Better to choose a real dish, giving him the hackneyed image of a bon vivant and letting him believe that this is her approach to all the great pleasures of life.
Warm duck confit?
Her finger, somewhat nervously, scrawls down several lines on this damned menu. The waiter is coming over, and she knows she will have to come to a decision. And so she figures she will brave the danger with an act of courage. She will choose something adventurous:
“Welsh rarebit,” she says.
She reads out the foreign words so casually you’d think she’d done it a hundred times before. The man opposite her looks up, surprised, and she savors the effect. Of course, she has no idea what she’s just ordered. On the menu, in small print, it says: “a specialty made from cheddar, beer, and toast.” Inwardly she smiles: inedible. No matter, she will talk enough for him not to notice that she’s ignoring her plate. The waiter then turns to the man.
“I’ll have the same, please,” he says.
In a flash, the whole scene crumbles. A sheep, a follower. Suddenly she realizes that his conversation has been peppered with banalities for the past half hour. She now knows she’ll eat two bites, then find a reason to leave before the hour is up. And she will never see him again.