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Americans in Paris

Kimberly Quinn

Wednesday, 17th September 2008

Kimberly Quinn visits her mum, who deserted Beverly Hills for the French capital

M y mother is a breed of American woman that’s fast disappearing. The Protos-femme-nancy-reaganotus. One of those chic little septuagenarians who comes down to breakfast in full make-up and still wears a matching ensemble to lunch. If you closed your eyes, you would swear she had on gloves. My mother has discipline and drive. She makes things happen. A decade ago I was visiting her in Los Angeles. Reading the Times over breakfast, she flipped to the Travel section. ‘What do you think about renting an apartment in Paris?’ she asked. Within the week she was on the plane to see estate agents. Within the month she had not rented, but purchased the sweetest little flat in the 7th arrondissement. Having cruised Beverly Hills for most of her adult life, she made the decision to go native, and shipped herself and her Chanel suits off to Paris.

So every April and September I board the Eurostar for a week of fun with Mum. I wouldn’t call it sun-lounger fun — my mother, after all, is a purposeful person. Here’s Mum’s Paris: vigorous, goal-oriented, and not to be flinched at.

Learn French: What’s the point of looking French if you open your mouth and give the game away? Mother topped up her school French with a course at the Paris Alliance, the tried and trusted language school on the Left Bank (101 Boulevard Raspail, 75207 Paris, Cedex 06; tel: 00 331 42 84 90 00; info@alliancefr.org). They offer an excellent series of customised courses including phonetics, private lessons and self-guided learning courses. She now sounds as good as she looks. My father has learned no French. She does all the talking. It’s easier that way.

Eat French: I have noticed that French women never, ever snack. They save their calories for a truly lovely meal. They eat judiciously but well. After we’ve walked until our legs ache, and looked at but not touched the pâtisserie, mother and I head for La Cigale Recamier (4 rue Recamier, 75007 Paris. 00 331 45 48 86 58). It’s situated on a pretty tree-lined pedestrian passage, and specialises in soufflés. The soufflé is the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ of French food. It seems naff, until a good one comes along. And then you understand that only something truly wonderful can become a cliché. Laura Bush recently had lunch at La Cigale. She liked it so much she invited the owner to the White House. Monsieur Idoux took her up on the offer. So now you can enjoy a gorgonzola and fig soufflé and talk to the only Frenchman in the world who loves President Bush.

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