Chez Moi by Agnes Desarthe

By Agnes Desarthe

At forty-three, Myriam has been a spouse, mom, and lover—but by no means a restauranteur. whilst she opens Chez Moi in a quiet local in Paris, she has no inspiration the best way to run a company, yet armed in basic terms along with her love of cooking, she is set to aim. slightly in a position to 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 stories of her previous. yet quickly sufficient her delectable food brings her many buddies to Chez Moi, and Myriam unearths that she could get a moment likelihood at existence and love. Redolent with the attractions, smells, and tastes of Paris, Chez Moi is a captivating tale that might 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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Sample text

It’s a problem I have. Neurological. Neurological that is, not psychological (that’s a terrible word, it really is). I’m absolutely hopeless with book titles. I get all the authors confused. Just then, for example, I mentioned a Shakespeare play but it could be that the one I was thinking of was by Molière or Ibsen. I can only cope with the thirty-three volumes of my nomadic library. The rest is just a great heap, a muddle and, in my eyes, the site of all beauty. The book I’m thinking about, while Vincent explains the relative merits of slot-in record players and the sort with an arm, the book I’ve lost is a philosophical treatise.

He thinks they’re for girls and for cattle. My mother’s the only person I know who calls a pie crust a pavement. I think it’s sweet and can pardon her the offence. Has she forgiven me mine? The raw tuna marinated in cébette onions is a success I regret. It cost a fortune and it’s so easy to do it’s soulless. It’s the sea they should be thanking, not me. My own vanity is intoxicating. I’ve made the decision: no more raw fish. My first two customers are schoolgirls. They come through the door at quarter past twelve.

Didn’t their mummies teach them to eat slowly, putting the spoon down between each mouthful? The scrolls of Camel smoke merge with the clouds of steam from the saucepan. We become ghost-like figures, lost in thick mist. They don’t seem to mind and I congratulate myself that my first two customers aren’t persnickety. Passers-by have started gathering, intrigued by the mysterious fog. This is the beginning of my glory. ’ Startled, we burst out laughing. You know, there’s a wonderful atmosphere here.

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