Before I left England for my first visit to France, no one explained the bise, and even if they had, I might have brushed it off with typical Yorkshire terseness. We were always dismissive of public displays of affection. So, when this enthusiastic Boy Scout set off, I carried the suspicious, paternal warning that the French “do that kissing thing.” Without guidance, it was as if I had been handed a French language primer and told, “you’ll soon pick it up.” I have not fully picked it up (yet). I can still get slightly terse when someone launches a face toward me with an unpredictable bise expectation.

I forgive myself because that swift bise carries a lot of terse potential! The sheer number of variables can seem formidable beneath its air of effortless charm. For example, how many kisses are in a bise? There is no universal answer. France is not a one-bise-fits-all nation. I am not entirely clear about who does what and where, as no one clarification fits all. But according to my randomly selected source, there are distinct regional trends with predictable traits. Roughly, south of a line running from Bordeaux to Nancy, two kisses will do. Head into Brittany, though, and the count drops to a single, almost curt peck. Venture toward Montpellier or into the compact cluster of departments around the Massif Central (Ardèche, Aveyron, Cantal, Lozère) and a third kiss is customary. Push north, into the swath of departments running from Normandy up to the Belgian border, and you are obliged to deliver four in a regime so committed to its own protocols that visitors from the lesser-kiss regions admit to chaos at a simple wedding. And should you find yourself in Corsica, I have heard that a meaningful minority of that assertive population regards even four as insufficient and are reputed to go to five, which to me would be a formidable endurance test.

In the absence of an Académie de la Bise, confusion runs deep. Unregulated, the French are unable to settle it through tradition, pride or shame. In 2007, a crowdsourced website invited citizens to vote on their own local customs. Easy elegance was reduced to self-reported spreadsheet data, which resulted in an interactive map, combiendebises.com, where there is no consensus. Stumbling on the local bise custom is much like finding a step is missing on a staircase: midway there.

And there remains the unfathomable matter of which cheek first, where variation is normal. But that detail does not deter the confidence of everyone else in the room. They do not pause. They do not calculate. They glide from cheek to cheek with the unthinking fluency of people sharing their phone numbers, while I stand there, running a small, desperate computer program in my head: left cheek or right? Two or three kisses? Dare I choose? I am going to lean in with my right cheek forward! Do I make a kissy sound? But by the time the inner algorithm spills out a decision, the greeting face has closed in, touched and is gone, unnoticed by anyone but me.

Furthermore, there is always a de plus in France. The bise does not happen in isolation. It belongs to a wider etiquette of handshakes, hugs and eye contact. But that, as they say, is another story.

I haven’t mastered the bise and attendant conventions as much as I have surrendered to them, the way I surrender to using my computer: not by understanding it, but by simply doing the next thing. I remind myself that Faire la Bise is a simple act of welcome. But what will happen at my friend’s family reunion, for example, when people from different regions lean in expectantly? Which cheek? Do I cheek-brush, lip-peck, or pucker my mouth? Will there be hugs? How do they figure it all out? But I have stopped wondering. I let strangers steer toward my face and assume they will telepath the rest. I even accept that I will occasionally collide with someone’s nose. And will never ask if this is also part of French normality.

Richard

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There was a time, not long ago, when my husband and I were in our ‘Very American Baby Era’ of sleep. For a couple of years, our evenings were run like a well-oiled machine, fuelled by our anxiety to get everything just right for our children. We had the whole sleep package: blackout curtains, white noise machines (set to mimic the whooshing sound of the womb), and baby monitors that would track every aspect of our children’s sleep, including their breathing and the temperature in their room.

So why set a 7 pm bedtime and adhere to a strict sleep schedule so religiously? I believed the books, the blogs of other sleep-deprived parents, plus my own peripheral observations. There were so many touting the growth of a child’s brain, and its potential for lost cognitive development with lost naps and late nights. They said children who go to bed late would be less than average human beings, suffering from mood and other disorders.

But then we moved to France, where sleep is…not quite so sacred.

A Country That Sleeps When It Feels Like It

Bedtime in France is seasonal. When it gets dark at 4:30 pm in winter, we go to bed earlier. As the days get longer in the summer and it doesn’t get dark until after 9:30 pm, the kids are usually outside playing until nightfall. It would be considered depravity to have your kids inside for a bath, book, and lights out by 7:30 pm, when the rest of the village is still out for the evening, having dinner, enjoying life.

In the summer, dinner is typically around 7:30 or 8 pm. Yes, dinner starts at 8 pm, and yes, with the children. The children eat what the grownups eat. They sit and participate with the adults. And nobody’s bringing up their child’s circadian rhythm over a glass of rosé.

At first, this made my inner American twitch. How was this sustainable? Were all of these French children riddled with low IQs and the aforementioned mood disorders? Were they all underperforming students who would inevitably turn into unhappy adults? But no. As it turns out, it was quite the opposite.

These children were happy and bright and just genuinely lovely, as were the adults, and watching this, my brain slowly started rewiring itself.

What Happens When a Kindergarten Play Starts at 8pm

My next observation came when I saw the announcement of the date and time for the school performance: 20h00 it read. I was confused - surely this was a typo? Surely they actually meant 18h00? Surely they didn’t expect to start a school performance (for primary school-aged children) at 8 pm, which would inevitably end sometime around 10 pm? But no, that was indeed when the performances would be starting, and I couldn’t help but picture a large group of overtired, cranky kids, rubbing their eyes mid-song and stifling yawns from curtain up to curtain call.

It couldn’t have been more different.

What I saw that night was joyful, happy kids performing under the stars. They were proud to show off their talents in front of a crowded room full of applauding fans. It was, as it turned out, quite magical.

Sleep Still Matters, But So Does Sanity

Yes, we of course still believe in sleep, in rest, in routine. In getting kids to bed at a reasonable hour after a long day, or on school nights. But no longer as if our lives depend on it. And not as if a late bedtime is a moral failing on the part of the parent. We know that the stress of it all can do far more harm than a few lost minutes of sleep.

Sleep in France is socially and culturally acceptable and expected. It’s distributed throughout the day - shopkeepers close in the afternoon for la pause (usually an afternoon nap), August is one long month of rest, and children are given time to rest at school, even the older kids, sometimes with pillows and soft music.

The Real Gift: Letting Go of the Clock

France has taught us many things since moving here, like how to navigate French bureaucracy (with wine), the appropriate number of cheeses to serve at a dinner party (five), and that rushing rarely improves anything.

But I think one of the best things has been the more relaxed approach to bedtime, to rigid parenting methods in general. Bedtime is not a battleground anymore. It is instead a rhythm, or a guide. And while some nights are easier than others (and some children are more ready for sleep than others), other nights are still unwon negotiations with endless stalling tactics (‘can I have some more water?’) and existential questions. But we no longer see these late nights as failures. Instead, we’ve learned to zoom out of our house and our children and our own fatigue and see that it is all just a part of living, and living well.

Because bedtime is just one small part of a much bigger picture, a picture where connection matters more than control. Where slowing down matters more than locking in a schedule, and where the night, soft and glowing and sometimes a little too late, might just be where the best memories are made.

À bientôt,

Kamille

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I thought I understood the French menu.

I speak enough French to get myself into situations I can’t gracefully exit, which I’ve always considered a working level of fluency. I know what a plat is. I’ve eaten enough cheese to qualify for residency. I arrive with confidence.

This is my first mistake.

A drink appears before anything has been discussed, agreed upon, or even suggested. It just arrives, as if I’ve been pre-approved. A kir. A pastis. Something with a color that implies commitment. There are olives, or a small dish of something that looks like it could either be delicious or a legal form of initiation.

I sit. I sip. I accept that I am no longer in charge.

By the time the menu appears, I’m already behind. I scan it with the calm, measured confidence of someone who has absolutely no idea what’s happening but refuses to be the first to admit it. I choose something I can pronounce, which feels like the correct metric at the time, and then immediately begin to suspect that I have just agreed to eat something with a backstory.

This is not paranoia. This is pattern recognition.

Somewhere between the drink I didn’t order and the dish I don’t fully understand, I remember that French dining did not start like this.

There was a time when everything arrived at once in what can only be described as a decorative meat parade. No pacing. No mystery. Just food, aggressively presented, like a medieval buffet with ambition but no boundaries.

And honestly? There’s something reassuring about that level of honesty. No interpretation required. Just… commitment.

Now everything arrives in stages. Thoughtfully. Strategically. Somewhere along the line, someone decided that butter was more important than chaos, and the entire country reorganized itself around that decision.

I sit there, trying to identify what’s on my plate, and feel like I’m participating in the long-term outcome of several centuries of culinary decisions I was not consulted on.

The first plate arrives as a salade de gésiers, which sounds manageable right up until you remember what a gésier actually is. It’s warm, rich, slightly resistant in a way that requires attention. Not unpleasant. Just… very certain of itself.

I nod as if this is familiar, like I’ve always been the kind of person who orders warm gizzards on purpose, even though a small part of me is still mentally back at a Caesar salad.

At this point, nodding feels like an important part of the process. By the time the next course arrives, I’ve stopped trying to anticipate anything.

Duck appears and then reappears in another form, as if it has been reconsidered.

A steak arrives that is less “cooked” than “considered,” and I adjust my expectations accordingly, mostly by lowering them.

Then there is steak tartare. Raw beef. Raw egg. No explanation, no apology. It sits there with quiet authority, as if the issue is not whether I understand it, but whether I am prepared to move forward.

I take a bite. It is, annoyingly, excellent, which complicates things.

Just as I begin to feel like I might be understanding what’s happening, the

Andouillette arrives.

It arrives with a presence that makes itself known immediately. There is a moment - purely through scent - where I understand that I am about to learn something about myself, and possibly not something I was looking to learn.

I pause.

This feels important.

I take a bite, carefully, with the composure of someone who has done this before. I have not. I do not react, which feels like both an accomplishment and a small betrayal of my instincts.

Around me, nothing changes. The meal continues, which feels like a lack of support. I take another bite, which feels like both an accomplishment and the kind you only recognize later, when you’re alone and replaying it.

At some point, I stop trying to understand what I’m eating and start focusing on how I’m eating it.

There are rules. No one explains them. Everyone follows them or performs following them convincingly.

No one corrects me.

Which is worse.

When the cheese arrives, it does so with quiet gravity. A board appears with options that feel less like food and more like decisions I will later revisit. I cut carefully, aware that I am participating in something I don’t fully understand, but also slightly afraid of getting it wrong in a way that would follow me home.

By the time dessert appears, the idea of ‘needing’ anything has left the conversation entirely. Dessert comes whether I need it or not, which by now feels irrelevant.

A café gourmand appears. Espresso surrounded by a small, intimidating collection of desserts, like speed dating with higher stakes and no polite exit.

I commit, which at this point feels less like a choice and more like a policy.

By now, I am no longer trying to manage the meal. I am inside it. Because at some point, it clicks.

The menu isn’t trying to confuse you. It’s trying to slow you down. To make you sit. To order in stages. To pay attention to what’s in front of you instead of what’s next. To remind you that a meal isn’t something you get through. It’s something you move through.

And somewhere along the way, without quite noticing when it happened, you stop trying to win.

You just start eating.

Jenny.

Has a French meal ever done this to you — pulled you in before you quite knew what was happening? Tell me in the comments.

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Bonjour, my dear friends and subscribers, both new and long-time.

Here’s what you’ll find today:

1. This week “16.32.a - What Generosity Bought Me

2. Feature: A little note from me this month

3. This week’s ‘What’s happening in ‘MyFrenchLife™ Magazine’ - a selection of new contributors and fresh articles from across France.

4. You can also find the free newsletter ‘‘16.32- Arguing Over Socca- here during the weekend.

Warm regards
Judy - 15.8.2026

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Something catches my attention, almost always sideways. Regular readers know what I mean by that… It’s not usually the headline. A single line, mentioned once in something I was reading for a completely different reason, and never brought up again for the rest of the piece.

That’s how Pauline Dujancourt found her way onto my shelf. One sentence, almost thrown away: something about hating to knit. I went digging expecting the usual dry gully, a young designer with decent press, and nothing much underneath. And then it wasn’t dry at all.

Originally from Paris, she’s thirty-one now and working out of London. Later, Dujancourt was a LVMH Prize finalist, and Dover Street Market stocks her. None of that’s the part that caught my attention; that came later.

Pauline Dujancourt, AW25, “Everything is Moving, Nothing Feels Safe.” Image: paulinedujancourt.com

She learnt to knit as a child, the way plenty of French girls still do, sitting near a grandmother for whom it wasn’t a hobby so much as a language. And she hated it. Properly hated it, by her own account. Heavy, she thought. Dusty. The sort of thing done between naps.

She started at the École Duperré in Paris, then attended the London College of Fashion. Later, Dujancourt went to Central Saint Martins, and at every turn she steered as far from knitwear as the curriculum allowed. Womenswear. Anything but the needles

Then Paris shut its doors in 2020, the way cities did, and Dujancourt found herself alone in an apartment with nothing much to do and, as it happened, a box of her grandmother’s old yarn was within reach.

What she did with it is the bit I love.

She didn’t simply pick the knitting back up out of boredom. No, she went looking for the hardest techniques she could find on YouTube. And they were even in languages she didn’t speak a word of.

“I’m talking about hours watching Turkish women doing crochet work,” she has said of those months. “Couldn’t understand a word. Just watched their hands. Pause, rewind, pause, rewind.”Maybe if I don't like it, I can find a way to make it fit my own aesthetics, she has said of the logic behind it. Not maybe grandmother was right. Something closer to a negotiation.

There’s something quite bloody-minded in that, and I mean that with real admiration. “Maybe if I don’t like it, I can find a way to make it fit my own aesthetics, “ she has said of the logic behind it. Not maybe grandmother was right. Something closer to a negotiation. I’ll take this thing you handed me, and I will bend it, stitch by stitch, until it answers to me.

Four years on, that negotiation has produced work I genuinely didn’t expect from a description of “knitwear.” A mini dress built from a hundred and fifty individual crochet flowers, each one attached by hand. Jumpers left deliberately asymmetric, trailing ribbon and crochet as though caught mid-unravelling, except the unravelling is the most carefully finished part of the whole garment.

“I like to disturb the knit, disturb the technique,” she says. “Deconstruct things. Have things falling out, asymmetrical. But also super well finished. I want to create something beautiful, but also disturbing.”

AW25. Image: paulinedujancourt.com

I read that line three times before I understood why it was nagging at me. It isn’t really a design philosophy. It’s what happens when someone spends years resenting a craft and then finally sits down with it on entirely different terms.

There's more to this than a fashion profile — the thread runs all the way back through a rationed magazine behind a wall that came down before Dujancourt was born. That's the part I want to tell you.

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Today at a Glance: Your FREE weekly newsletter

Bonjour mes ami(e)s !

It’s wonderful to have you back here with me today. Bienvenue !

1. In this newsletter, you’ll find these wonderful fresh articles taking you to France beyond the cliché.

2. Don’t miss the PAID subscriber edition of le Bulletin → It’s not too late to upgrade & read it←

   À bientôt !
   Warmly,
   Judy - 15.8.2026

1. MyFrenchLife™ Magazine new articles

a) La Fête du Costume in Arles
by Joanna Maclennan

I can’t believe I’m about to admit that in all the time I have been living in Provence, this is only the second time that I have been to the traditional ‘Fête du Costume’ in Arles, held the first weekend in July every year. Maybe I have not been around or perhaps I am just more interested in it now.”

La Fête du Costume dates back to 1903 instigated by the famous writer Frédéric Mistral who created the Festo Vierginenco (Festival of Virgins). Young girls were invited to wear the dress and hair ribbon as a symbol of their passage into adulthood…” wrote Joanna Maclennan

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b) Louvre Lens Museum, Hauts de France
by Caroline McCormick-Clarke

The Louvre-Lens museum is built on a former mine shaft of the Lens Mining Company. As I drove along Rue Paul Bert from the Stade Bollaert-Delelis football stadium towards the museum’s free car park, I passed streets of well preserved red bricked miners’ cottages.”

The one storey glass and aluminium metal museum building is composed of a series of five volumes - a large square and four rectangles - connected only at their corners. This modern arrangement evokes the Louvre Palace in Paris, structured around a central pavilion onto which are grafted two large wings, each ending in a recess.”

The museum was designed by architects Kazuyo Sejima and Ryue Nishizawa of the Japanese firm SANAA…” wrote Caroline McCormick-Clarke

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c) The Grandmother’s Yarn
by Judy MacMahon

Something catches my attention, almost always sideways. Not the headline. A single line, mentioned once in something I was reading for a completely different reason, and never brought up again for the rest of the piece.

That’s how Pauline Dujancourt found her way onto my shelf. One sentence, almost thrown away: something about hating to knit. I went digging expecting the usual dry gully, a young designer with decent press and nothing much underneath. And then it wasn’t dry at all.

She’s French and thirty-one now, working out of London. LVMH Prize finalist. Dover Street Market stocks her. None of that’s the part that stopped me…”

Read the entire essay→

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d) La cuisine nissarde + 9 great places to try it in Nice
by Suzanne Rietmeijer

When I think of la cuisine niçoise, I immediately want to pick up some socca on Cours Saleya, or grab a slice of pissaladière. I have friends who swear by a good, fresh pan bagnat, but only if it comes from that one very particular place.

That’s really the common thread when you talk to Niçois about their local cuisine. Sooner or later, you’ll get a fiery case for why X makes the best socca and why Y is the only place you should ever order pissaladière from, often delivered with a passionately raised finger.

And that’s before we even get into what does and doesn’t belong in a salade niçoise (looking at you, haricots verts, tinned tuna, and lettuce), and why you absolutely have to try the green yet sweet tourte de blettes, a Swiss chard tart, and the gnocchi-like merda de can (loosely translated: dog poop, la joie!)…” wrote Suzanne Rietmeijer.

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2. Merci mille fois

“Thank you for subscribing to ‘le Bulletin’, the newsletter of MyFrenchLife™ Magazine.”
Judy MacMahon

Merci mille fois d’être ici, mes ami(e)s. Thanks for being here.

I’m so grateful for you, those who’ve been here reading this.

Merci to Joanna, out in Arles chasing a festival she’d somehow missed for years. To Caroline, standing over a mine shaft turned museum in the Hauts-de-France. To Suzanne, brave enough to wade into Nice’s oldest argument, whose salade niçoise, whose socca, and coming out the other side with nine addresses worth trusting.

France rarely agrees with itself, and I love it all the more for that.

This is FRANCE AS IT HAPPENS this week.

À bientôt,
Judy
judy@myfrenchlife.org

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I can’t believe I’m about to admit that in all the time I have been living in Provence, this is only the second time that I have been to the traditional ‘Fête du Costume’ in Arles, held the first weekend in July every year. Maybe I have not been around or perhaps I am just more interested in it now.

La Fête du Costume dates back to 1903 instigated by the famous writer Frédéric Mistral who created the Festo Vierginenco (Festival of Virgins). Young girls were invited to wear the dress and hair ribbon as a symbol of their passage into adulthood.

Traditionally, the Arlésienne costume was worn on Sundays and holidays.

I was with my friend Pierre, who personally introduced me to Jean-Luc & Hélène (above) and asked me to take some photos for them. The headpiece was in Pierre’s collection. He was a great guide, as he showed me particular outfits that were very good or had been well styled, including the names, which I can’t remember now!

Some groups are ‘reconstitution of traditional costumes’ amongst the traditional Arlésienne costume at the Fête du Costume.

Amongst the many people and photographers snapping away, it is definitely a time when you have to be quick to get the photo, but on these occasions, you will find that they are proud of their attire and will often pose whilst you take a photo which gives you a few more seconds to think about it before taking it.

On another note, the same weekend, the Musee de la Mode et du Costume by Fragonard opened in Arles with a spectacular mise en scene by Art Director and personal friend Clément Trouche, who has had his dream for many years to open a Museum in Arles. I can’t recommend it enough, and definitely one of those ‘Incontournable - must see’ in Arles.

Finally, a photo (below) of the present Reine d’Arles - Amélie Laugier, elected in 2024, who will retain the position for 3 years. They are proud of this tradition, and they fulfil a huge programme of duties for 3 years. They must be able to ride side-saddle and speak Provençal, among other things.

All photos are copyright the author!

Hope you enjoyed it

Joanna x

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As I write, there is still no sign of a real ceasefire or peace between Iran and the U.S./Israel. The Strait of Hormuz is persistently blockaded with repeated trading of missiles and drones between opposing sides.

Supplies of Middle Eastern oil exports to the rest of the world have been interrupted. This 2026 Energy Crisis has resulted in a sharp increase in petrol pump prices.

We have been here before. The 1970s global Oil Crisis. Particularly in 1973 during the Yom Kippur War and again in 1979 during the Iranian Revolution.

I can remember the 1970s Energy Crisis as a child. Not that I was avidly watching the news or reading the newspapers.

There were frequent power cuts in Britain, beginning in early 1972. As children living in Harrow, north London, we found them exciting as candles were lit whilst we played board games or cards. Of course, I now understand that this was due to the Coalminers’ Strikes for better pay; the global Oil Crisis and subsequent soaring inflation.

As a family, we moved back to Ireland in 1973. And I can vividly remember the loud rebuke if, God forbid, you turned on the hot water immersion heater to wash your hair.

I should stress that this was typical in many Irish homes in the 1970s. Indeed, now you can purchase nostalgic posters on Etsy and elsewhere, celebrating that classic Irish Mammy phrase “Turn off the immersion”.

TV Adverts on how to keep your home warm and save money on energy bills were common. Have a look at this one from the Irish Film Institute archives.

ESB Warm Home Advert 1970s

In an attempt to reduce energy bills, our parents had a coal-fired back boiler installed behind the fireplace in the sitting room. It was a monstrosity of a thing. When the back burner overheated and the hot water pressure increased, the copper water pipes began to vibrate noisily. One of us had to leg it upstairs and release a valve to reduce the pressure.

In the back garden, there was a coal bunker made from concrete breeze blocks cemented together in a haphazard manner by Dad. Yet it is still standing and survives today, unused and redundant, over 50 years later.

Setting the fire was one of our house chores when we arrived home after school in the winter.

To make the fire, we would first clear out the ash and cinders. Then scrunched up newspaper followed by criss-crossed chopped kindling were placed in the grate. It’s a mercy none of us didn’t lose a finger or two chopping that firewood with the lethal axe. It was bloody hard work outside in the cold.

Once the newspaper and kindling were lit, coals were added. Eventually, when the coals were glowing red, a shovel of damp slack was added.

Photo: https://meekincoal.co.uk/

Slack contains fine grains of bituminous coal. It is a cheaper byproduct of processing larger coal lumps. Using slack saved money by “smothering” and slowing down the burning fire to keep it in over night or during the day.

The large white plastic Ballyfree Eggs catering bucket, filled with slack and topped up with water, lived outside the kitchen back door. An image of that bucket is forever branded on my brain.

Ballyfree Eggs Advert 1970s

At the time, in a still predominantly rural Irish farming culture, cats weren’t perceived as pets but rather as mouse/rat catchers. Visits to the vet were unheard of.

Tiptoes, my beloved long haired fluffy black cat with white paws, was not neutered. Inevitable litters of newly born kittens were invariably placed in a white Dunnes Stores supermarket plastic bag with green text, which was knotted and then placed under the water in the bucket of slack - to drown.

When I was sixteen, our father’s sister Aunty Rose, who was visiting us, gave me money for my bus fare. I took two buses with Tiptoes in a cardboard box into Dublin City and across town to the south side to be neutered at the Dublin Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. No more kittens.

Photo: Twin Slack Heaps Les terrils Jumeaux 74 & 74a, Loos-en-Gohelle, Lens

It’s a grey, wet December day in Hauts de France. As I drive past the two huge twin Slack heaps (les Terrils) at Loos-en-Gohelle on the outskirts of Lens, my mind drifts to memories of the 1970s Oil Crisis, that Ballyfree Eggs bucket of Slack outside the back door and those kittens in the Dunnes Stores plastic bag.

Emile Zola and his novel Germinal:

Painting: Emile Zola, Edouard Manet, 1868, Oil on Canvas, © GrandPalaisRmn (musée d’Orsay) / Patrice Schmidt

Emile Zola was born in Paris in 1840 but moved with his family to Aix-en-Provence, where his father worked as a civil engineer, building the Tholonet dam, still in use today.

Painting: The François Zola Dam, Paul Cézanne, oil on paper laid down on canvas, Museum Wales

At school, Zola became best friends with the future painter Paul Cézanne, who protected him from bullies. They spent much of their time rambling out and about in Nature, exploring the countryside surrounding Aix-en-Provence, in the shadow of the sugar-loaf outline of Montagne Saint-Victoire.¹²

Painting: Paul Alexis Reads a Manuscript to Zola, Paul Cézanne, 1869, oil on canvas, Museu de Arte de São Paulo

His father died of pleurisy when Zola was seven years old, plunging the family into poverty. He returned to Paris in 1858 with his mother, to complete his studies. Zola failed his Baccalaureate twice, whilst contracting encephalitis.

Two years of unemployment, whilst experiencing extreme poverty followed, before Zola found work, initially as a clerk, at the Hachette publishing company.

In his writing, Zola draws on his own life experiences, with a personal understanding of what it is to experience poverty.

In his 20 volume fiction series called Les Rougon-Macquart, Zola has three aims:

• To document his time and share with his readers an accurate reflection of the French Second Empire era (1852 - 1870) in which he lived and he viewed as politically, morally and financially corrupt.

• To offer us a view of human behaviour - who we are and how we become who we are. Zola believed that we are products of our environment, our era and our heredity.

• To write about reality. Zola shares his belief with his readers that you can find beauty in everyday life.

  Kate Griffiths Professor in French and Translation at Cardiff University, In Our Time, BBC Radio 4

Germinal, Emile Zola’s 13th novel was published in 1885. Like Charles Dickens, Zola’s novels were initially serialised. He wrote this novel after detailed research and a week spent down the mine at Denain in Valenciennes.

In Germinal, Zola weaves the story of a coal miners’ strike in northern France in the 1860s.

The main character, Étienne Lantier, a migrant worker, arrives in the mining town of Montsou after being sacked from his job as a railway mechanic in Lille. He becomes friends with Toussaint Maheu, an older, experienced miner, who helps him find accommodation and a job in Le Voreux (The Voracious One) coal mine pit.

Étienne falls in love with Maheu’s daughter Catherine, who is in a relationship with the violent bully Chaval.

Poverty is endemic in Montsou and working conditions in the coal mine are dire. Gradually, Étienne earns the trust of the miners and the local community.

Encouraged by Souvarine, a Russian emigrant with anarchist political leanings, Étienne leads the miners to strike action. Starvation follows, leading the coal miners to revolt. The strike is ultimately unsuccessful; quashed by the local army and police; the miners and their families blaming Étienne for the outcome.

In the final scenes, Souvarine engineers the destruction of the mine-shaft, leaving Étienne, Catherine, and Chaval trapped in an underground coal mine pit. Chaval is killed in a confrontation with Étienne. Catherine and Étienne are finally able to share their feelings of love for each other. However, Catherine tragically dies from exhaustion in Étienne’s arms.

The novel has been adapted for the screen no less than seven times (1904, 1905, 1913, 1963, 1970, 1993, and 2021).

My favourite is Claude Berri’s 1993 film starring Gérard Depardieu and Miou-Miou. It was shot on location around Lens and Valenciennes in Hauts-de-France.

Photos: IMDb

The film crew at the time were shocked by the very real unemployment and poverty witnessed whilst on location in 1990s Lens and Valenciennes.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose?

Video: YouTube, Germinal trailer

A History of Coal Mining in Lens:

The Nord-Pas de Calais Bassin Minier was initially discovered near Fresnes-sur-Escaut in 1720. It forms part of an enormous Carboniferous coalfield belt running from Colombia, through the Appalachian Mountains in the U.S., continuing through Southern Ireland and then onwards through Britain, northern France, Germany, Poland, Ukraine, Kazakhstan and India to China.

The Bassin Minier is the second largest coalfield in north west Europe, measuring 120 kilometres long, 12 kilometres wide and 1.2 kilometres deep.

Map: https://upload.wikimedia.org/

The first mining company was established in 1757. From then onwards, the number of mining companies multiplied, stimulated by the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century and extending to the towns of Lens, Béthune, Bruay and Courrières.

Peak production occurred in the 1930s with 18 Mining Companies, 8 National Operating Groups, 600 sunk mining shafts, 100,000 kilometres of tunnels and 2 billion tons of coal extracted.

The pits and housing estates of the Lens Mining Company, rebuilt after the First World War

The region’s network of tunnels produced half of the French coal supply from 1940 to 1960, contributing to France’s reconstruction after World War II.

From the 1960s onwards, a long period of decline began until the last “gaillette” ³ was brought up at pit no. 9-9bis in Oignies on December 21, 1990.

Economic depression, unemployment and poverty, as observed by the Germinal (1993) film crew, followed the closing of the coal mines in the late 20th century.

For three centuries, the region was almost entirely dominated by coal mining. It shares a universal history of coal mining traditions, architecture and landscape with the U.S., Europe, Asia and as far as China.

Yet this region is unique in that much of the coal mining architecture and landscape have been preserved. There are 109 individual buildings including red brick miners’ cottages, head frames supporting the elevators, mine shafts, railway lines and stations, mining company headquarters and mining towns and 51 distinctive black conical Slack heaps that shape the landscape.

Photos: https://whc.unesco.org/fr

The Bassin Minier exemplifies a significant period in the history of industrial Europe. It offers us insight into the living conditions of miners and the solidarity among workers.

Given the historical coal mining region’s universal and unique characteristics, the 120,000 hectare Bassin Minier site was inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List in June 2012.

Racing Club de Lens Football Club:

Coming off the A26 motorway heading into Lens, from afar I could see the pearly white bright modern structure that is Stade Bollaert-Delelis. Home to football club RC Lens.

Photos: author

I parked up and took some photos for my footie-obsessed husband Mr. C. When I showed Mr. C., he commented that the stadium seemed to have quite an exposed, open structure. I had to agree with him. You would definitely need to be wearing your thermal base layers under your Football stripe if attending a midwinter match, exposed to the notorious “Le Vent du Nord”.

Racing Club de Lens was founded in 1906 and has strong links to the Lens Mining Company. The stadium, originally built in 1932, is named after Félix Bollaert, director of the Lens Mining Company, who commissioned its construction. It can accommodate up to 38,000 seated spectators, which is more than the population of Lens (36,000 residents).

Photos: https://tourisme-lens.fr

With its burgundy blood red and gold stripe, the RC de Lens football club were Division 1 (now Ligue 1) French Champions in 1998 and finished as runner-up on five occasions, most recently in the 2022 - 2023 season. In addition, RC Lens were winners of the Coupe de la Ligue in 1999 and multiple qualifiers for European competitions. As I write, the football club are second in the French Ligue 1, snapping at the heels of Paris-Saint-Germain.

Table: Google, 11/05/26

Former RC Lens coaches include two ex-France coaches: Gérard Houllier and Roger Lemerre.

Photos: https://www.rclens.fr

The football crest includes a black miner’s lamp in silhouette, in front of the coat of arms for the city of Lens, which took over the management of the club from the Mining Company in 1969.

My ultimate destination, Musée Louvre Lens, was a mere 5-minute drive from Stade Bollaert-Delelis.

The Louvre-Lens Museum:

The Louvre-Lens museum is built on a former mine shaft of the Lens Mining Company. As I drove along Rue Paul Bert from the Stade Bollaert-Delelis football stadium towards the museum’s free car park, I passed streets of well-preserved red-brick miners’ cottages.

The one-storey glass and aluminium metal museum building is composed of a series of five volumes - a large square and four rectangles - connected only at their corners. This modern arrangement evokes the Louvre Palace in Paris, structured around a central pavilion onto which are grafted two large wings, each ending in a recess.

The museum was designed by architects Kazuyo Sejima and Ryue Nishizawa of the Japanese firm SANAA. They were keen to respect the linear and horizontal architecture inherited from the mines with a long, single-storey building, whilst following the gentle slope of the landscape. The building height never exceeds 6 metres, allowing it to blend into the post-coal mining environment.

The Louvre-Lens museum was completed in 2012 and inaugurated on December 4th, le jour de la Sainte-Barbe, the patron saint of miners.

It symbolises the revitalisation of the entire region, with an average of 500,000 visitors per year.

In March 2022, National Geographic commented:

As the first outpost for the world’s most popular museum, the venue brought international cachet and great hope for the economic future…

…Unemployment in Lens has been steadily decreasing since hitting a high of 15.5 percent in 2009. In the first third of 2021, despite the pandemic, the region recorded unemployment of 9.4 percent. Tourism businesses in the private sector are now following the large initial public investment.

Entrance is free to the permanent exhibition and there is a generous programme of tours, workshops and other activities for persons of every age, ability and disability, making it a truly accessible venue.

On the day I visited, the museum was alive with several curious primary school groups, a studious, well focussed university group, parents with toddlers, retired couples and friends and travellers like myself. Yet it did not feel overwhelming nor suffocating. The space is open, airy and calm.

I first enjoyed a tasty lunch of a warming Duck Parmentier with a glass of Pinot Noir in the museum cafeteria, whilst browsing through the online guide brochure.

The Louvre-Lens museum contains a permanent Time Gallery with works from the Louvre Museum’s Paris collections and presents two temporary exhibitions per year in the Glass Pavilion.

I made a decision to focus solely on the permanent La Galerie du Temps exhibition, which was completely renewed in 2024. It represents 5000 years of human history, conceived as a “river of time” on which you can navigate freely.

With a generous 250 exhibits, I share with you - my personal top ten favourites:

1. Bloc from Le Roc-de-Sers

   Prehistoric, Upper Palaeolithic

   

   Le Roc-de-Sers (France)
   Around 18,000 BC
   Limestone
   Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Musée d’Archéologie nationale - MAN 74483d
   Excavations by Léon-Henri Martin, 1927

   This boulder with a carved horse comes from a shallow cavity at the foot of a rock face, which was used as a human shelter.

2. Stamp

   Antiquity, Uruk period

Girsu (present-day Tello, Iraq)
3500-3100 BC
Cut and incised jasper
Paris, Musée du Louvre - AO 14158
Excavations by Henri de Genouillac, 1931

The first image shows a seal in the shape of an animal. I think it’s a cat. On the reverse there is a motif of recessed circles, which look like paw prints to me. The object was intended to be affixed on clay, the imprint identifying goods or a person. In the 4th millennium BC, the first cities appeared in southern Mesopotamia, in the region between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.

3. Amulets

   Antiquity, late period of ancient Egypt

   

   Egypt
   Around 1069-332 BC
   Siliceous earthenware
   Paris, Musée du Louvre
   N 3825 E / AF 2343 / E 3713 / AF 2344 / E 13678 / E 22787

   In ancient Egypt, amulets were used to protect their bearers against disease and danger. Placed between the mummy’s bandages, they accompanied and protected the deceased in the afterlife. We have Sekhmet, with her lioness’s head, a dangerous and powerful goddess; Thoth a wise god, the inventor of writing, represented in the form of a baboon; Taweret with the body of a hippopotamus, the paws of a lioness and the back and tail of a crocodile, uses her frightening appearance to protect pregnant women and young children. The falcon is the bird of prey in which the many forms of the god Horus are embodied. As for the crocodile with the falcon’s head, it seems to embody the qualities of vigilance and watchfulness associated with two omnipresent predators of the Egyptian landscape and imagination: the crocodile in the river Nile and the falcon in the skies above.
   

4. Saint Matthew the Evangelist taking dictation from the Angel

   Middle Ages, Gothic Art

   

   
   Île-de-France (France)
   Around 1230
   Limestone
   Paris, Musée du Louvre - R.F. 1388
   Purchase, 1905

   This sculpture, part of a partition screen between the choir and the congregation, thought to be from Notre-Dame de Chartres cathedral, made me chuckle. No dictaphone here.

5. Circular Dish depicting a Fox (or Wolf) preaching to Geese
   Modern Times, Renaissance

   

   Deruta or Pesaro (Italy) [?]
   Around 1490-1500
   Earthenware
   Paris, Musée du Louvre - OA 9325
   Purchase, 1939 (Formerly of the Pringsheim Collection, research in progress)

   I’m not sure what the strings of pearls represent. Some sort of animal fable? But I love the image and colours.

6. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter

   Modern Times, Renaissance

   

   Giuseppe Arcimboldo
   Milan (Italy), around 1527-1593
   1573
   Oil on canvas
   Paris, Musée du Louvre - r. F. 1964-32
   Purchased from art dealer Jean Neger, 1964

   
   I could see the vivid colours of these Four Seasons profile portraits from a distance. But it’s only when you get closer that you realise the images have been created from a collage of flora. The four seasons correspond to the four ages of humanity: youth, adulthood, maturity and old age.
   

7. Woman Searching for Fleas

   Modern Times, European Enlightenment

   

   Giuseppe Maria Crespi
   Bologna (Italy), 1665-1747
   Around 1720-1730
   Oil on canvas
   Paris, Musée du Louvre - R.F. 1970-40
   Gift of the Société des Amis du Louvre (Friends of the Louvre), 1970

   As a former veterinary nurse, I am more used to dealing with fleas on animals. Not humans. So I enjoyed the humour and non-glamorous reality of this painting.

8. Nude Sitting, known as Mademoiselle Rose

   Modern Times, Romanticism

   

   Eugène Delacroix
   Charenton- Saint-Maurice (France), 1798 - Paris (France), 1863
   Around 1820
   Oil on canvas
   Paris, Musée du Louvre - R.F. 1942-14
   Dr Viau Collection, bought at public auction, 1942

   Eugène Delacroix started his apprenticeship training in 1815 in painter Pierre-Narcisse Guerin’s studio, where he took part in life model classes, notably with Mademoiselle Rose. These classes were important in enabling Delacroix to develop and apply his skills in the later portraits and the historical subjects for which he is best known, such as Liberty Guiding the People (1830).

• Eugène Delacroix, Le 28 juillet 1830. La Liberté guidant le peuple, © 2024 GrandPalaisRmn (musée du Louvre) / Rabeau/Didierjean

9. Leaving the Forest at Fontainebleau, Sunset

   Modern Times, 19th century landscape

   

   Théodore Rousseau
   Paris (France), 1812 - Barbizon (France), 1867
   1848-1850
   Oil on canvas
   Paris, Musée du Louvre - R.F. 112 State commission for the Musée du Luxembourg in 1848, attributed to the Louvre in 1874.

   There is a sense of quiet and perhaps sadness here, as the evening light penetrates through the shade at the edge of the forest trees and is reflected off the water surface, where the cattle are drinking.

10. The Coal Sorters (Europe and Cadmus)

    Modern Times, Contemporary

    

    Giulia Andreani
    Born 1985 in Venice (Italy)
    2024
    Acrylic on canvas
    Courtesy of Galerie Max Hetzler (Berlin, London, Paris)

    It is appropriate that my final chosen work of art from the Louvre-Lens museum returns to the overriding theme of this article - Coal (le Charbon). From afar, I think the image is a black and white photograph. But up close, I can see that it has been created with my favourite painting medium - acrylics. Here, the artist has used a single colour: Payne’s grey. Andreani questions history and the way it is received, concentrating in particular on forgotten or hidden stories.

Reflections:

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. I am beginning to see past the 35-plus packed removal boxes in our Victorian double cellar. With the sale of our French home now complete, I am actively visualising our new home on the island of Ireland in August.

I have previously written about Global Warming here - the causes; the consequences for all of us, and what we can do together to reduce and limit any further global temperature rise to below 1.5 degrees Celsius.

I feel passionately about reducing my own personal use of fossil fuels and embracing renewable energy sources, which do not emit carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.

Despite Britain’s reputation for grey weather, it receives approximately 60% of the solar radiation found at the equator – a similar amount of solar energy as parts of France, Spain, and Germany (which.co.uk, 12/08/25).

So with my husband, Mr. C., we have chosen to install photovoltaic solar panels on the roof of our new home.

We will also install an air source heat pump to generate hot water for washing and heating our home.

A heat pump works similarly to a fridge in reverse - absorbing heat from the air outside and moving it into your home.

Although heat pumps use electricity, they are highly efficient, turning every one unit of electricity into three or four units of heat. This is significantly more efficient than gas boilers, for example, which produce less than one unit of heat for each unit of gas used (which.co.uk, 22/09/2025).

Two-thirds of Northern Ireland households are currently reliant on oil-fired boilers. This is common in rural areas not connected to a gas supply grid pipeline.

The installation of solar panels and a heat pump will mean we will not be vulnerable to sudden, sharp increases in the cost of oil, as we are all currently experiencing due to the U.S./Israel versus Iran conflict and the continuing blockade of the Strait of Hormuz.

I ponder the word Revolution. It can have two meanings - the first representing a clean break with the past and the second, like the hands on a clock, turning full circle.

Vincent “Bonnemort” Maheu, Toussaint’s father, patriarch of the Maheu family and a veteran miner with 50 years experience in Zola’s Germinal, listening to the miners debate whether to strike, comments:

You can say what you like, and it will be all the same as if you said nothing.

The title of Zola’s novel Germinal derives from the Latin word Germen for a sprout or a bud. Germinal was the seventh month (late March to late April) in the revolutionary calendar that France adopted from 1793 to 1805, nearly one hundred years earlier.

Zola writes, offering hope for social progress and revolution in the final scene in Germinal, as Étienne Lantier departs the mining town of Montsou. :

En Français:

Maintenant, en plein ciel, le soleil d’avril rayonnait dans sa gloire, échauffant la terre qui enfantait. Du flanc nourricier jaillissait la vie, les bourgeons crevaient en feuilles vertes, les champs tressaillaient de la poussée des herbes. De toutes parts, des graines se gonflaient, s’allongeaient, gerçaient la plaine, travaillées d’un besoin de chaleur et de lumière.

Un débordement de sève coulait avec des voix chuchotantes, le bruit des germes s’épandait en un grand baiser. Encore, encore, de plus en plus distinctement, comme s’ils se fussent rapprochés du sol, les camarades tapaient. Aux rayons enflammés de l’astre, par cette matinée de jeunesse, c’était de cette rumeur que la campagne était grosse. Des hommes poussaient, une armée noire, vengeresse, qui germait lentement dans les sillons, grandissant pour les récoltes du siècle futur, et dont la germination allait faire bientôt éclater la terre.

In English:

The April sun was now well up in the sky, shedding its glorious warming rays on the teeming earth. Life was springing from her fertile womb, buds were bursting into leaf and the fields were quickening with fresh green grass. Everywhere seeds were swelling and lengthening, cracking open the plain in their upward thrust for warmth and light. The sap was rising in abundance with whispering voices, the germs of life were opening with a kiss.

On and on, ever more insistently, his comrades were tapping, tapping, as though they too were rising through the ground. On this youthful morning, in the fiery rays of the sun, the whole country was alive with this sound. Men were springing up, a black avenging host was slowly germinating in the furrows, thrusting upwards for the harvests of future ages. And very soon their germination would crack the earth asunder.

À bientôt

Caroline

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When I think of la cuisine niçoise, I immediately want to pick up some socca on Cours Saleya, or grab a slice of pissaladière. I have friends who swear by a good, fresh pan bagnat, but only if it comes from that one very particular place. That’s really the common thread when you talk to Niçois about their local cuisine. Sooner or later, you’ll get a fiery case for why X makes the best socca and why Y is the only place you should ever order pissaladière from, often delivered with a passionately raised finger. And that’s before we even get into what does and doesn’t belong in a salade niçoise (looking at you, haricots verts, tinned tuna, and lettuce), and why you absolutely have to try the green yet sweet tourte de blettes, a Swiss chard tart, and the gnocchi-like merda de can (loosely translated: dog poop, la joie!).

In this newsletter, I’ll tell you why the niçoise cuisine feels so Italian, but also why it’s largely vegetarian, and which local products are worth leaving space for in your suitcase. And of course, I’ll also share where to go in Nice for excellent cuisine nissarde (spoiler: one of my favourites is run by an eccentric chef who once held two Michelin stars).

Bisous

Suzanne

Sunshine on a plate, that’s la cuisine nissarde. Lots of vegetables, eggs, olives and the odd anchovy, but surprisingly little meat. Outsiders are more likely to call it la cuisine niçoise, but in the local Provençal dialect, Nissart, it’s known as la cuisine nissarde, and so that’s what I’m calling it too. This is a cuisine with one foot in Provence and the other in Italy, shaped by both Mediterranean and Alpine influences. Its roots go back centuries, but the arrival of Italian workers at the end of the 19th century was crucial to the emergence of the cuisine nissarde as we know it today.

Contea di Nizza

Anyone who’s visited Nice and Menton will know there’s an almost Italian feel to both cities. And that’s hardly surprising, because until 1860, Nice was part of the Kingdom of Sardinia-Piedmont. During Italian unification, in which Sardinia-Piedmont played a major role, Emperor Napoleon III decided to come to its aid in the fight against Austria, but naturally, he wanted something in return: the Comté de Nice and the Duchy of Savoy. So it’s only been part of France since 1860, and beyond the architecture, you still notice it today in the Italian-sounding surnames and, of course, the food culture.

Until 1860, the County of Nice was fairly isolated, both politically and geographically. And while the Côte’s climate is celebrated today, it was once precisely what held agricultural development back. Very little grew in the region, and long periods of drought, broken up by violent storms, put harvests at risk. So the Niçois opted for reliable crops such as vines and olive, almond and fig trees, all of which need very little water. Meat was scarce and therefore expensive, which is why it barely features in la cuisine nissarde. The same goes for fish, incidentally, because off the coast of Nice, aside from sardines, anchovies, octopus, and shellfish, very little is caught.

So yes, cuisine nissarde is fresh, Mediterranean, and often vegetarian, but alongside all those lighter dishes, there are plenty of bites drenched in local olive oil, rich regional cheeses you’ll want to stash in your suitcase, and of course, the local wines are not to be missed when you’re in Nice.

Caillette and tomme

Until the early 20th century, olives were central to the economy of the Comté de Nice, but after the two world wars, production never truly recovered. Nice olive oil, especially the kind made from the caillette olive, is still prized by those in the know. And if you’re heading to Cours Saleya anyway, you may as well stop by the shop of the famed Moulin à l’Huile d’Olive Alziari (14 Rue Saint-François de Paule) for a bottle of olive oil. Nice may not be the first place that comes to mind for cheese, but in the more remote hinterland, a number of local tommes are still made under the broader name tome de Champsaur: tomme de Tende, tomme de la Vésubie, tomme des Vigneaux, tomme du Queyras, and tomme de l’Ubaye.

Wine

Even if you go to Nice often, there’s every chance you’ve never actually seen the vineyards of Bellet. The appellation covers around 650 hectares, of which roughly fifty are under vine. The vineyards lie on the final foothills of the Alps, at elevations of 200 to 400 metres (656 to 1,312 ft), entirely within the city limits of Nice. They benefit from generous sunshine, favourable rainfall and a distinctive microclimate shaped by a mix of winds, including the Mistral and the Tramontane, which produce whites and rosés that are both fresh and elegant.

All in all, la cuisine nissarde is a modest, deeply rooted family cuisine, passed down from one generation to the next. In 1995, the Cuisine Nissarde label was introduced to protect and promote traditional Niçoise cooking. Naturally, a label like that comes with the odd tourist trap here and there, but trust me: the addresses below are very much worth your time.

Bon appétit!

9 of the best places to try cuisine nissarde in Nice

Socca

Where better to begin a tour of la cuisine nissarde than Marie-Thé’s? The stall run by Marie-Thé Pisano, born and raised in Vieux-Nice, sits at the end of Cours Saleya, and the golden socca, a chickpea flour snack, is still warm from the oven. Marie-Thé also does an excellent pissaladière (something like an onion and anchovy tart) and petits farcis. But as ever, opinions are divided, so I’m very happy to point you towards Chez Pipo too. At this little spot near the port, socca has been on the menu since 1933. It’s an iconic address in any case, because it was Pipo who first put pizza on the menu here in 1945, making it the first restaurant in Nice to do so.

→ Socca Du Cours, Chez Marie Thé, Place Charles Félix.
Open Wednesday to Sunday from 09:30 to 13:30, closed on Monday and Tuesday.

-

→ Chez Pipo, 13 Rue Bavastro.
Open Wednesday to Sunday from 11:30 to 14:30 and from 17:30 to 22:00, closed on Monday and Tuesday.

Chez Acchiardo

Right in the middle of the tourist bustle of Vieux-Nice, you’ll find Chez Acchiardo. A classic now run by the fifth generation of the family. Weave your way through the crowds and settle in at this family restaurant, where time seems to have stood still a little. On the menu: well-priced classics that are thoroughly worth ordering. And if you pay attention, you’ll notice plenty of locals taking their seats at ‘their’ Acchiardo too. It’s that kind of place.

→Chez Acchiardo, 38 Rue Droite.
Open Monday to Friday from 12:00 to 14:00 and from 19:00 to 22:00, closed on Saturday and Sunday.

Chez Davia

A few years ago, when I was working on my Côte d’Azur guidebook, I tried to book a table at Chez Davia. Slightly naively, I assumed I’d still be able to get in that same evening at this seemingly traditional restaurant with its red-and-white checked tablecloths, but I was very much mistaken. Chez Davia was fully booked for the rest of the week. Don’t let the same thing happen to you, because this is exactly the sort of place you’ll want to sit down at at least once. The cooking at Chez Davia is honest and thoughtful, from the generous barbajuans to the fragrant pâtes pistou and the rich daube de boeuf. Don’t skip the tarte aux pommes either. Yes, it’s on the pricier side, but here it’s absolutely worth it.

→ Chez Davia, 11bis Rue Grimaldi.
Open Wednesday to Sunday from 12:15 to 14:00 and from 19:00 to 21:30, closed on Monday and Tuesday.

Chez Palmyre

Three hundred sunny days a year, that’s the promise of Nice, and of many other towns along the Côte d’Azur. But even here it rains sometimes, especially in winter. That’s exactly what happened two years ago, when I went to the notary to sign the purchase contract for my little mountain house in the Mercantour. It was pouring and blowing hard that day, so luckily we had already booked a table at Chez Palmyre in Vieux Nice. A restaurant with little curtains and absolutely no view, which makes it perfect on a rainy day. The restaurant was opened in 1926, exactly a hundred years ago this year, by Palmyre Moni, a Tuscan who made Nice her second home. With its brick walls, old mirrors, red and white checked tablecloths and vintage plates advertising Suze, Ricard and Bouillon Kub, the place feels like stepping straight into another era. The lunch menu is simple and very reasonably priced, the atmosphere wonderfully old school. Do book ahead though, there are only a handful of tables.

→ Chez Palmyre, 5 Rue Droite, +33 (0) 4 93 85 72 32.
Open Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday from 12:00 to 13:30 and from 19:00 to 21:30, closed on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday.

La Merenda

During his career, chef Dominique Le Stanc cooked at the highest level in Monaco, Èze and at Le Chantecler in the Negresco, where he earned two Michelin stars. But in the end, he wanted something different: a small restaurant where he could devote himself entirely to la cuisine nissarde. That opportunity came when he was able to take over La Merenda, one of his favourite addresses, after its owners retired. What does a day in Le Stanc’s life look like? It starts early at Cours Saleya, where Dominique personally picks out his produce. After that, he and his team disappear into the restaurant’s tiny kitchen, where dishes are created that seem so simple, yet feel pure and refined. You come here for the pissaladière, the tagliatelle au pistou and, of course, the beautifully creamy tarte au citron to finish. Everything here feels special precisely because it’s so unpretentious. Note: book ahead.

→ La Merenda, 4 Rue Raoul Bosio.
Open Tuesday to Friday from 12:00 to 14:00 and from 19:00 to 21:30, closed Saturday to Monday.

La Table Alziari

Want to impress your friends with a classic Niçois address? La Table Alziari has been around for twenty-five years, and yes, you can tell in places. But honestly, that doesn’t matter one bit, because you come here for unfussy classics done properly. Make sure to order the petits farcis, beignets de fleurs de courgette, pâtes au pistou and morue à la niçoise. The menu is intentionally compact and follows the seasons. The atmosphere is warm, and the little terrace on this quiet street in Vieux-Nice makes the perfect setting for an evening of properly authentic food.

→ La Table Alziari, 4 Rue François Zanin.
Open Tuesday to Saturday from 12:00 to 13:45 and from 19:30 to 21:15, closed on Sunday and Monday.

Pan bagnat

As I said, most Niçois have a favourite address for the beloved sandwich called pan bagnat, which was added to France’s cultural heritage list just a few years ago, and among my friends, Kiosque Tintin and Chez Félix are the names that come up most. What’s lovely about Kiosque Tintin is that it takes you to the lively Libération neighbourhood, just north of the station. Tintin began life as a small wooden kiosk by the old Gare du Sud and grew into the kind of place where half of Nice seems to go for its pan bagnat. You’re not just here for the sandwich, but for everything around it too: the neighbourhood feel, the market, the fact that it all feels unmistakably local. Chez Félix, just beside the green stretch of the Promenade du Paillon, has been going since 1966. It’s a proper institution, and you can count on a generously filled, wonderfully fresh pan bagnat here.

→ Kiosque Tintin, 3 Place du Général de Gaulle.
Open Tuesday to Sunday from 06:00 to 15:00, closed on Monday.

-

→ Chez Félix, 16 Boulevard Jean Jaurès.
Open Tuesday to Saturday from 09:00 to 18:00, closed on Sunday and Monday.

~ Fin

À Bientôt

Suzanne

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Introducing Contributor Suzanne Rietmeijer

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Bonjour, my dear friends and subscribers, both new and long-time.

Un grand merci (a big thank you) for being part of this wonderful global family of Francophiles. Your support enables me to continue growing and improving MyFrenchLife™ Magazine and the le Bulletin newsletter, offering more to you, this growing global community.

Here’s what you’ll find today:

1. This week “16.31.a - Where Things Come From

2. Feature: I Found Myself Wondering, “What’s in a Name?”

3. This week’s ‘What’s happening in ‘MyFrenchLife™ Magazine’ - a selection of new contributors and fresh articles from across France.

4. You can also find the free newsletter ‘‘16.31-Small Words, Long French Histories - here during the weekend.

Warm regards
Judy - 8.8.2026

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1. I Found Myself Wondering, “What’s in a Name?”

I found myself wondering, "What’s in a name?” after I nearly skimmed past a small item in the Financial Times magazine, HTSI, a couple of days ago. Three or four paragraphs tucked into The Fix, a headline about serving Versailles, a photograph of a woman in a linen apron standing among cabbages. It had the shape of the kind of story a magazine runs to fill a corner. Perfect object, perfect-looking and perfectly dressed woman, move along.

But there was a name in there that snagged, Givenchy, and a garden that snagged harder, Versailles. So I went and looked properly, the way I do when something feels like a dry gully… that might have a seam running through it.

Her name is Zoë de Givenchy, and my first assumption, the lazy one, was the obvious one. Married a famous surname, borrowed it for a business. Happens all the time. Except she isn’t from anywhere near French fashion. She’s from Melbourne, and before any of this, she was in public relations and brand management at Credit Suisse, a career that says spreadsheets and press releases, not palace gardens. She met her husband, Olivier de Givenchy, in London in 2008. Olivier is the nephew of Hubert de Givenchy, the couturier whose name built the fashion house. The family, with their two children, now live in Château du Jonchet.

That’s the fact everyone reaches for first. I reached for it too. And then I kept going… because that fact alone wasn’t enough to explain the cabbages and more… And it became so much more interesting…

Annual Subscribers and Mighty Supporters, come and sit with me a while. This is where it gets good, yes, really. Here’s where you can read the full essay→

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Today at a Glance: Your FREE weekly newsletter

Bonjour mes ami(e)s !

It’s wonderful to have you back here with me today. Bienvenue !

1. In this newsletter, you’ll find these wonderful fresh articles taking you to France beyond the cliché.

2. Don’t miss the PAID subscriber edition of le Bulletin in your inbox: “16.27.a - Where Things Come From - It’s not too late to upgrade & read it←

   À bientôt !
   Warmly,
   Judy - 8.8.2026

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1. MyFrenchLife™ Magazine new articles

a) Fourme d’Ambert: The wonder of Fromage – unveiling one French cheese at a time
by Emily Monaco

“Once upon a time, according to Aurélien Vorger, director of the Groupement d’employeurs des AOP Persillés in France’s formerly volcanic Auvergne region, fourme was another word for cheese.”

Fourme comes from Latin, he explains, which comes from the Greek for ‘to form.’ But bit by bit, we got the word fourme, then fourmage, which became fromage in modern French.”

“A fourme, then, is merely the word for a local cheese, often named, he asserts, not for where it was made, but for the nearest market, where it was sold. But these days, Fourme d’Ambert is far more than the cheese sold in the market town of Ambert…” writes Emily Monaco.

Read the full article→

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b) Rue de Vaugirard: Paris’s Longest Street Remembers a Vanished Village
by Pierre Guernier

Paris’s longest street, stretching over four kilometres, Rue de Vaugirard began life as a simple road leading to the medieval village of Vaugirard. The name itself is a contraction of “Val Girard”, the valley of an abbot named Girard, who founded a monastery nearby.

Over time, the village was absorbed into…” writes Pierre Guernier.

Read the full article→

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c) The Loire Valley Uncorked: Wine Missions, Saints, Soldiers and Sips
by Eveline Chartier

Learn about key characters influencing the Loire Valley as a wine region. From the saints who shaped the region’s development to one of today’s importers, this diverse region has much to offer.” writes Eveline Chartier.

1. →The Loire River Runs Thru’ It

2. →Mary Taylor and her Anjou, Loire wine

Read the full article and sources→

Leave a comment

2. Merci mille fois

“Thank you for subscribing to ‘le Bulletin’, the newsletter of MyFrenchLife™ Magazine.”
Judy MacMahon

Merci mille fois d’être ici, mes ami(e)s. Thanks for being here.

This week, these three MyFrenchLife contributors went looking in the small print of French words and French streets, and found history sitting there quietly, waiting to be asked about.

→Emily Monaco chased fourme back past fromage to a Greek word for shape. →Pierre Guernier walked Rue de Vaugirard and found a whole medieval village folded inside its name.
→Eveline Chartier followed the Loire through the saints, soldiers, and vignerons who built it into a wine region worth arguing about.

Three writers, three threads, one France that keeps rewarding the second look.

And that, perhaps, is FRANCE AS IT HAPPENS this week.

Did any of these catch you off guard?

À bientôt,
Judy
judy@myfrenchlife.org

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But there was a name in there that caught my attention. Givenchy. And a garden that snagged harder. Versailles. And something in me, the part that can’t leave a loose thread alone, said, go and look properly before you decide this is nothing.

You know the feeling I mean because I’ve written about it before. The research dry gully that turns out to have a seam running through it, if you’re bothered enough to keep digging. So I continued to dig.

Then it went onto the paragraph that I'd almost skipped.

Her name is Zoë de Givenchy. My first assumption, a lazy one, was the obvious one that she married a famous surname, borrowed it for a business. It happens all the time. Except she isn’t from anywhere near French fashion. She’s from Melbourne, and before any of this, she was in public relations and brand management at Credit Suisse. She met her husband, Olivier de Givenchy, in London in 2008. Olivier is the nephew of Hubert de Givenchy, the couturier whose name built the house. That’s the fact everyone reaches for first. I reached for it too. I kept going, because that fact on its own wasn’t nearly enough to explain the cabbages.

Annual Subscribers and Mighty Supporters, come and sit with me a while. This is where it gets good.

Consider upgrading

Read more

Loire map – credit: Vins de Loire/InterLoire

Learn about key characters influencing the Loire Valley as a wine region. From the saints who shaped the region’s development to one of today’s importers, this diverse region has much to offer.

Loire map zoomed in on Touraine with Tours near the center and Saint-Nicolas-de-Bourgueil to its West – credit: Vins de Loire/InterLoire

The Loire River Runs Thru’ It

The Loire Valley, following France’s longest river, is a diverse wine region producing Chenin Blanc, Sauvignon Blanc, and Cabernet Franc, among others. The latter, a parent of Cabernet Sauvignon, thrives here with its fresh, medium-bodied reds and herbaceous notes. St-Nicolas-de-Bourgueil in France’s Loire Valley is home to elegant Cabernet Franc wines.
Curious to find out more?

Mary Taylor and her Anjou, Loire wine

Mary Taylor Wine Import and sales company was founded by… you guessed it, Mary Taylor. Her unique approach offers consumers a trusted brand for high-quality, small-production wines. Her Anjou Rouge, a Cabernet Franc and Cabernet Sauvignon blend, emphasizes a sense of place and delivers exceptional value.
Discover more… see links below…

Further reading: Let’s dig deeper:

– A River Runs Through It: Loire Valley’s Saints, Soldiers, & Sips – Four Loire wine regions, one river
– A Label with Purpose – The Story Behind Mary Taylor Wine’s Mission – Demystifying European wines’ sense of place

How much do you know about the Wine from the Loire Valley? What are your preferred wines? Please share below in the comments.

Leave a comment

Introducing Contributor, Eveline Chartier:

Visit her Contributor Page — Explore more of Eveline’s work

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Fourme comes from Latin, he explains, which comes from the Greek for ‘to form.’ But bit by bit, we got the word fourme, then fourmage, which became fromage in modern French.

A fourme, then, is merely the word for a local cheese, often named, he asserts, not for where it was made, but for the nearest market, where it was sold. But these days, Fourme d’Ambert is far more than the cheese sold in the market town of Ambert.

Characterized by its unique cylindrical shape, Fourme d’Ambert is one of the oldest cheeses in France, with roots dating back to pre-Roman Gaul, according to the official AOP board for the cheese. It boasts a semi-soft texture and mild blue veining. A popular cheese for cooking, it melts nicely into sauces or onto toast.

It’s also a cheese that, until recently, saw its artisanal nature threatened by its very popularity. Indeed, according to producer Antoine de Boismenu, until 2000, industrial production was the only name of this game – a fact that is thankfully becoming less and less true with each passing day.

The Return of Artisanal Fourme

After nearly 15 years in Paris, De Boismenu abandoned the French capital in 2006 to fulfill a childhood dream of working the land.

I spent my childhood vacations on a farm. And it seemed obvious to me that that was what I would do later on,” he explains.

That said, he recalls, reality soon beckoned, and the young De Boismenu, who was not raised by farmers, instead attended law school. He nevertheless retained an agricultural dimension to his career, working notably for the National Center for Young Farmers (CNJA) and the National Federation for the establishment of rural businesses (SAFER). He even wrote a book about the protection of rural landscapes in the early aughts. But it wasn’t until 2006 that he abandoned his urban life for good, setting up shop with his brother Louis at his farm in Valcivières back in 2007.

“I had done everything I wanted to do in Paris,” he says. “It was time, at the end of the day, to have another life.”

Soon after, their sister Diane joined them, as well as a new pair of associates, Nicolas and Aurélie Vialatte. Louis has since left the project, and today, the four divide everything from administrative tasks to cheesemaking.

In their natural aging cellar, their fourme takes full advantage of the flora of other cheeses the group produces – mainly tomme de montagne, which De Boismenu characterizes as being similar to Saint-Nectaire. They also, of course, have the animals to look after, 35 Salers and 20 Abondance cows – the former from the local region, the latter an Alpine cow more at home on the Swiss border. Fourme d’Ambert production, after all, does not require that farmers use a particular breed – only, De Boismenu explains, that they be “born and raised in the area.”

It’s a flexibility that isn’t necessarily shared by stricter AOPs – and it’s not the only flexibility that has led the cheese to become more industrialized than most. Given the market for export, much of the AOP Fourme d’Ambert produced in the region is made with pasteurized milk, and the vast majority is still made by industrial – rather than artisanal – producers.

“Until 2000, the Fourme d’Ambert AOP was exclusively industrial,” explains De Boismenu. “At the end of the day, the fermier secteur is fairly young.”

But just because these artisanal producers are new doesn’t mean they aren’t worth keeping an eye on.

“It’s a dynamic branch,” explains De Boismenu, noting that small farms like his are “still working with specifications that were built and adapted to industrial production. But it’s evolving.”

Indeed, it’s a trend that’s taking place throughout France, with small producers challenging the rules of their AOPs, often in order to revert to older traditions. As a result, De Boismenu notes, many French appellations are “trying to tighten their specifications.”

“We won’t be spared,” he says, “and fortunately!”

For now, however, of the 5,500 tons of Fourme d’Ambert produced each year, only 150 are farm-produced; there are currently nine fermier producers, though De Boismenu notes that, given new projects on the rise, this number will only grow.

Vorger echoes this optimism for the dynamism of the AOP.

Raw milk has been growing in the past few years, but a few years ago, there was none left at all,” he adds.

And this, he says, is as true for Fourme d’Ambert as it is for its lesser-known cousin, Fourme de Montbrison.

Two Cheeses Divided by a Mountain

If you’ve never heard of Fourme de Montbrison, you’re not alone. Indeed, while Fourme d’Ambert is fairly present on supermarket shelves and even in cheese shops abroad, Fourme de Montbrison is little-known outside of its region – a fact Vorger attributes in part to the strong communication strategy of the cheese AOPs of Auvergne; Montbrison, made in the Loire, falls outside of its jurisdiction.

“Fourme d’Ambert has benefited a lot from the presence and the diffusion of Auvergne cheeses elsewhere,” says Vorger. “This allowed it to be offered all over France – and even abroad – very early on. But Fourme de Montbrison has remained chiefly in the Loire. And only now is it starting to come out of its region.”

Nevertheless, asserts Vorger, the cheeses “are two sisters” – both cylindrical, both blue-veined – that are nevertheless marked by the mountain dividing them.

“People didn’t have the same tastes, on each side of the mountain,” asserts Vorger, noting that while the cheese started as the same recipe – and was even controlled by the same AOP until 2002 – the “the differences in taste translated, today, into two sets of specifications.”

The main differences between the cheeses stem from the fact that on the Auvergne side of the mountain, people liked a bluer cheese; on the Forez side, meanwhile, they had less of a taste for it. Today, Montbrison isn’t just less blue than Ambert; it’s also firmer, thanks in large part to a technical difference whereby Montbrison is salted when the curds are added to the cylindrical molds, while Ambert is seasoned after, by rubbing salt into the outside. Montbrison is also aged on pine wood, which conveys specific bacteria to the cheese that give it an orange crust, as opposed to the greyer crust sought after for Ambert.

“I’d say Fourme de Montbrison is better for gratins,” says Vorger. “And Fourme d’Ambert is very interesting for sauces, or to melt into a risotto, for example.”

The Perfect Fourme d’Ambert

The universe of blue cheeses, Vorger asserts, is “very heterogeneous,” varying not only between producers and along seasonal lines but also from day to day, minute to minute.

“The first cheese of a batch is different from the last cheese of the same batch,” he says. “The bottom of the cheese is different from the top of the cheese.”

The role of the AOP, he says, is not to encourage homogeneity, but rather to give “broad guidelines in terms of shape, flavor, and texture.”

“At the end of the day,” he says, “we’re not here to make all fourmes look the same. That would be dramatic.”

Each producer, then, has a certain cheese he or she is looking for when manipulating base ingredients. For De Boismenu, that’s above all something that’s “very creamy.”

“That’s what seems the most important, to me,” he says.

As compared to industrial iterations, De Boismenu’s cheeses tend to be a bit yellower in color, due to the lack of homogenization in the fermier sector, and their crusts tend to be greyer, rather than the white found on industrial iterations. His, he says, “correspond pretty well to the official specifications, so a grey crust with white and blue spots,” a description echoed by Vorger, who notes that an ideal Fourme d’Ambert will sport a rough, rugged exterior the color of dark stone.

Once sliced into its characteristic rounds, Fourme d’Ambert should reveal a creamy, ivory color and a uniquely soft, unctuous texture that veers almost towards chewiness.

“That’s a real characteristic, of fourme,” asserts Vorger. “Its height – which is very unique in the category of blue cheese, or indeed cheeses in general, conveys a texture with structure.”

Above all, Fourme d’Ambert should boast a mild blue bitterness – mild being the operative word. As compared to something bold and punchy like Roquefort, fourme will never be too salty nor too assertive – and for Vorger, that’s a good thing.

“Sometimes, a strong flavor can lead to one or two flavors blocking the tastebuds, so you don’t taste anything else,” he says. “That mildness allows it to reveal a lot of things that power can sometimes hide.”

The Fourme d’Ambert sold by Paris-based fromager-affineur Laurent Dubois has a bark far worse than its bite. Dubois was one of the first to earn a Meilleur Ouvrier de France distinction for his trade. His Fourme d’Ambert stands out thanks to its long aging – twelve additional weeks –, which renders it buttery and soft in texture and lends it a sweet-and-savory flavor with almost aniseed aromas.

“In aging it,” he asserts, “you really find a beautiful harmony between the flavor and the texture.”

He sources his cheese, not from a small fermier producer, but rather from Laqueuille, a large, industrial company. It’s a decision, Dubois says, that he made after finding that many smaller producers opted to craft cheeses that were firmer and drier than what he was looking for.

“That’s nice too,” he says, “but a buttery, creamy fourme like the kind that we want… I haven’t really found that yet.”

The cheese from Laqueuille may be pasteurized, then, but according to Dubois, the company nevertheless boasts a savoir-faire and deep respect for the appellation.

“So yes, they pasteurize. They don’t work with raw milk,” says Dubois. “But fittingly, we can add value and flavor and interest to this cheese, just in aging it a little bit longer.”

It’s a choice that, he says, has helped to give fourme a bit more identity among French people who think of it first and foremost as a cooking cheese.

“People don’t often come asking for Fourme d’Ambert,” he says. “We’re the ones who say to them: ‘Try this blue cheese. It’ll be a bit different than what you’re used to.’”

How Do You Eat Your Fourme d’Ambert?

When it comes to pairing Fourme d’Ambert, Vorger recommends white wine or low-acid reds from Burgundy, the Loire Valley, or Auvergne to complement the “powerful” cheese. He even suggests brown and amber ales, with their nutty, cereal notes, or floral IPA.

He also suggests sweet-and-savory pairings, something Dubois echoes.

“It’s a cheese that goes well with sugar,” says Dubois, suggesting a pear gelée or a juicy fresh fruit as an accompaniment. Even a glass of port or another sweet or fortified wine can go nicely, a suggestion echoed by De Boismenu.

“I like a slightly sweeter red, like a Maury,” he says. “I think that’s ideal. Or honestly, even grape juice.”

“Often,” he continues, “people talk about pairing Maury and chocolate. Well, I say, ‘Why not try Maury, chocolate, and Fourme d’Ambert!’”

Have you tasted Fourme d’Ambert? Do you only use it for cooking? Please share your experiences and preferences in the comments below.

Image credits:
1. Aurélien Vorger via Auvergnat.com © Leah Webermann
2-3. Fourme Ambert – Jasserie et les vaches © Pierre SOISSON
4. Antoine de Boismenu © S Placie
5. Antoine de Boismenu producteur de fourme d’Ambert fermière AOP, dans sa cave de la ferme des Supeyres
6 – 7 Fourme d’Ambert © Ludovic Combe
8. Fourme d’Ambert et Pain © Sabine Alphonsine
9-10 Laurent Dubois Paris Maubert © Christophe Flemin via Vivant.eco
11. Fourme d’Ambert © Christophe Flemin
12. Tranche Fourme sur pain © Ludovic Combe

All images copyright Emily Monaco unless otherwise stated.

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Rue de Vaugirard is often described as the longest street in Paris.

Indeed, if you were to walk its entire length, you would cover 4 km / 2.5 miles across two arrondissements: the 6th and the 15th.

This thoroughfare links the Odéon district to the Porte de Versailles, following the route of a former country lane.

Rue de Vaugirard is an interesting example of Paris’s gradual expansion.

The origins of Rue de Vaugirard

It takes a bit of imagination to picture that, in days gone by, this bustling Parisian street was simply a road cutting through the fields.

It allowed travellers coming from Paris to reach the medieval village of Vaugirard.

At that time, the village lay outside the capital’s fortifications, in the countryside. Along the route of the street were farmlands and religious communities.

Where does the name Vaugirard come from?

As mentioned, Vaugirard was the name of a village situated to the south-west of Paris. Its name probably derives from ‘Val Girard’, meaning the valley of Girard. Tradition attributes the founding of a monastery in the vicinity to Abbé Girard. Thus, over time, Val Girard became Vaugirard. The village then gave its name to the street.

From country lane to Parisian street

As Paris gradually expanded south-westwards, the land between Paris and Vaugirard was developed. The former country lane was transformed into an urban thoroughfare, and the village of Vaugirard was eventually absorbed into Paris.

The street has thus become a vital link between several neighbourhoods and, above all, an illustration of how Paris grew by incorporating neighbouring villages in 1860.

The urban landscape along the street

As you walk along the street from east to west, you’ll enjoy a wide variety of atmospheres and architectural styles, varying according to the era.

There are the elegant neighbourhoods around the Luxembourg Gardens, followed by university buildings and institutions.

Further on, residential blocks stand alongside local shops.

Some sections of the street are rather quiet, whilst others are bustling.

Have you walked the full length of Rue de Vaugirard, from the Luxembourg Gardens to the Porte de Versailles? What did you notice along the way?

Introducing Contributor, Pierre Guernier:

Visit his Contributor Page — Explore more of Pierre’s work

Bonjour, my dear friends and subscribers, both new and long-time.

Here’s what you’ll find in le Bulletin magazine today:

1. This week “16.30.a - A Coat, A Dead Novelist, A Toddler in Paris

2. Feature: I heard Morocco. Then Paris. And then I knew.

3. This week’s ‘What’s happening in ‘MyFrenchLife™ Magazine’ - a selection of new contributors and fresh articles from across France.

4. You can also find the free newsletter ‘‘16.30- The Writer Who Refused to Stay Dead - here during the weekend.

Warm regards
Judy - 1.8.2026

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1. I heard Morocco. Then Paris. And then I knew.

I know her. Or I thought I knew her.

We read Lullaby in the MyFrenchLife™ book club, Chanson douce in French, Lullaby in English, and some of us in both languages. Those opening words. You don’t forget them. You don’t forget what they do to you. And I’d been carrying my picture of Leïla Slimani ever since: Prix Goncourt, Macron’s personal emissary for the French language, the first Moroccan woman to win France’s most prestigious literary prize.

A fortnight ago last Tuesday, I was walking home from the market with both hands full, baskets heavy, fresh vegetables and heaps of tomatoes; it was a cooler day, but the sun in my eyes, the general difficulty of being a person with too many things to carry, and a podcast started. I hadn’t chosen it deliberately. It just began, the way they do when your phone decides for you, and I couldn’t stop to look because of the tomatoes and because I was concentrating on not dropping anything.

I heard “Morocco,” and then I heard “Paris”.

A woman’s voice, unhurried and precise. She was a little amused at herself, describing what it felt like to arrive in Paris at seventeen, completely alone, standing on a terrasse watching Parisian women move through their day. She said she was feeling lost. In Morocco, she said, beauty takes hours: the salon, the caftan, the jewellery, and everyone understands this. But Parisian women looked effortless, and she couldn’t decode it. She felt stupid. She also felt unfashionable. She found a vintage shop because she couldn’t afford anything else.

I slowed down… I was walking through the park.

She said that in Paris she watches from the terrasse as a writer. She watches all the details. How a woman carries her bag. How you go out into the world, and you read the details, in what is worn and what is hidden underneath. And I thought: I know this voice.

It was Bella Freud’s podcast. You know how I love Bella. I’ve mentioned her here before; you know… that quality she has of sitting with someone until they say the thing they didn’t plan to say. And her guest, on this particular Tuesday morning, was talking about a coat.

She said she’d been working at the Villa Medicis in Rome. She woke one morning feeling depressed. And when she walked out into the street, she watched the Roman women moving through their city with that particular Roman ease, and she wanted to be one of them. She went into a Max Mara shop, and she was taken by the colour Sienna. She bought something that doesn’t crease when you travel. And she told herself: “ You deserve it. Go and buy it.”

I don’t know why that made me stop on the footpath. Maybe because I’d been carrying a certain picture of her all these years, and this- what I was hearing felt different. This was a woman on a difficult morning in a foreign city, alone, and she seemed to be giving herself permission.

And then I knew. It came to me the way things do sometimes when you’re not looking. Leïla Slimani. Of course it was.

What happens next is the part I didn’t see coming. The mother. The father with no passport. The thing he said to her before she left. And the question she asks herself, sitting in front of a blank page that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.

This is a MyFrenchLife™ paid deep-dive French Culture Essay. If you’re not yet a paid subscriber, this is the kind of thing waiting for you every week.

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Today at a Glance: Your FREE weekly newsletter

Bonjour mes ami(e)s !

It’s wonderful to have you back here with me today. Bienvenue !

1. In this newsletter, you’ll find these wonderful fresh articles taking you to France beyond the cliché.

2. Don’t miss the PAID subscriber edition of le Bulletin in your inbox: “16.30.a - A Coat, A Dead Novelist, A Toddler in Paris - It’s not too late to upgrade & read it←

   À bientôt !
   Warmly,
   Judy - 1.8.2026

Consider upgrading your subscription

1. MyFrenchLife™ Magazine new articles

a) Joris-Karl Huysmans Is Dead
by Elisabeth Sauvage-Callaghan

I spent most of the second half of the 1990’s in the company of a French writer who had been dead for close to a century. A few years later, I paid him a visit in Paris.”

I read Joris-Karl Huysmans’ novel À Rebours (Against the Grain or Against Nature) in the spring of 1992, because it was on the reading list for my Master’s degree in French Literature. This “novel without a plot,” hailed as the ultimate masterpiece of decadent literature, blew me away. I fell in love with its quirky recluse protagonist and with Huysmans’s jeweled vocabulary, tortured syntax, vast erudition, endearing gruffness, and sardonic wit. Eager to know him better, I read two more of his novels for an independent study project. Soon, I decided to write my doctoral dissertation on the representation of temporality in his works…” wrote Elisabeth Sauvage-Callaghan.

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b) The Petrifying Fountains
by Debra Fioritto

We were on our way to a cheese farm.

Kathy and I had been driving since morning, a quiet route through the Auvergne, the kind of country drive we’d been taking together for twenty years.

Then we came around a bend and saw the sign: “Fontaines Pétrifiantes”… wrote Debra Fioritto.

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c) Paris with les petits enfants
by Kathryn Ivey

I’m only 3.5 years into living life in Paris as a mother.

Raising kids in Paris has been a completely different landscape from exploring the city sans enfants.

However, I have found that there are so many simple joys here that are magical in the eyes of a toddler and for older kids, too. My oldest is 3 years old, and my youngest is 1 year old, so I’m always seeking out activities to get us out of the apartment, burn some energy, and hopefully introduce them to some culture and beauty along the way…” wrote Kathryn Ivey.

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2. Merci mille fois

“Thank you for subscribing to ‘le Bulletin’, the newsletter of MyFrenchLife™ Magazine.”
Judy MacMahon

Merci mille fois d’être ici, mes ami(e)s. Thanks for being here.

These three pieces today, all in a very different register, and yet look how they almost rhyme: a man refusing to be forgotten, a landscape doing something impossible slowly, and even a small child making the same old streets new again. That is rather the point of what we do here, isn’t it? France keeps offering fresh proof that curiosity never really finishes its work.

And that, perhaps, is FRANCE AS IT HAPPENS this week.

À bientôt,
Judy
judy@myfrenchlife.org

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We read Lullaby in the MyFrenchLife™ book club, Chanson douce in French, Lullaby in English, and some of us in both languages. Those opening words. You don’t forget them. You don’t forget what they do to you. And I’d been carrying my picture of Leïla Slimani ever since: Prix Goncourt, Macron’s personal emissary for the French language, the first Moroccan woman to win France’s most prestigious literary prize.

A fortnight ago last Tuesday, I was walking home from the market with both hands full, baskets heavy, fresh vegetables and heaps of tomatoes; it was a cooler day, but the sun in my eyes, the general difficulty of being a person with too many things to carry, and a podcast started. I hadn’t chosen it deliberately. It just began, the way they do when your phone decides for you, and I couldn’t stop to look because of the tomatoes and because I was concentrating on not dropping anything.

I heard “Morocco,” and then I heard “Paris”.

A woman’s voice, unhurried and precise. She was a little amused at herself, describing what it felt like to arrive in Paris at seventeen, completely alone, standing on a terrasse watching Parisian women move through their day. She said she was feeling lost. In Morocco, she said, beauty takes hours: the salon, the caftan, the jewellery, and everyone understands this. But Parisian women looked effortless, and she couldn’t decode it. She felt stupid. She also felt unfashionable. She found a vintage shop because she couldn’t afford anything else.

I slowed down… I was walking through the park.

She said that in Paris she watches from the terrasse as a writer. She watches all the details. How a woman carries her bag. How you go out into the world, and you read the details, in what is worn and what is hidden underneath. And I thought: I know this voice.

It was Bella Freud’s podcast. You know how I love Bella. I’ve mentioned her here before; you know… that quality she has of sitting with someone until they say the thing they didn’t plan to say. And her guest, on this particular Tuesday morning, was talking about a coat.

She said she’d been working at the Villa Medicis in Rome. She woke one morning feeling depressed. And when she walked out into the street, she watched the Roman women moving through their city with that particular Roman ease, and she wanted to be one of them. She went into a Max Mara shop, and she was taken by the colour Sienna. She bought something that doesn’t crease when you travel. And she told herself: " You deserve it. Go and buy it.”

I don’t know why that made me stop on the footpath. Maybe because I’d been carrying a certain picture of her all these years, and this- what I was hearing felt different. This was a woman on a difficult morning in a foreign city, alone, and she seemed to be giving herself permission.

And then I knew. It came to me the way things do sometimes when you’re not looking. Leïla Slimani. Of course it was.

What happens next is the part I didn’t see coming. The mother. The father with no passport. The thing he said to her before she left. And the question she asks herself, sitting in front of a blank page that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.

This is a MyFrenchLife™ paid deep-dive French Culture Essay. If you’re not yet a paid subscriber, this is the kind of thing waiting for you every week.

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Before we moved to Paris and were longing to grow our family, I had a deep-seated dream of living and raising my family here. In 2012, I remember reading an article in the Wall Street Journal about discovering Paris through children’s books. The writer, Liam Callanan, had taken his young family to Paris, and they explored the city through the storylines of Bemelman’s Madeline, Lamorisse’s Red Ballon, and Selznick’s The Invention of Hugo Cabret. I cut out the article and taped it to our fridge, having no idea how things would pan out.

Callahan’s insights have proven to be a trustworthy guide. Thirteen years later, I find myself living in Paris with two kids of my own and the original newspaper article carefully folded and stored away in our apartment here. I often read through it, noting the ways I can continue to introduce this magical city to my kids.

Thankfully, books are almost as precious as currency here in France. Although iPhones are starting to obscure more and more faces in the metros, sidewalks, and cafés, books are still prominent accessories toted around town by all ages. I know it’s tempting to research “best places to visit for kids in Paris” on the internet, make a Google map of saved spots to visit, and then use this as your guide, but, dare I say, how blasé.

Ditch the phone, find an adventurous story about Paris (there are loads of these books), read it before your trip with your kids, take the book with you to Paris, and bring the story to life!

We recently did this with our 3-year-old during his spring break. One of our favorite books is Adèle & Simon. The story follows a sister and brother on their walk home from school, which becomes a mini-adventure, making stops at the Louvre, the Jardins des Plantes, a patisserie, etc., all while trying to find all the various items little Simon has lost along the way. My son Hugo was pointing out all the places he wanted to visit while reading the book during bedtime one night, so we thought, let’s just follow in the footsteps of Adèle & Simon and let that be our itinerary one day. The classic Eloise in Paris is also a favorite and is part of the inspiration for naming our daughter. And a hot tip - toting a book around makes you look more like a local.

Below, I’m sharing a few more tips and tricks that will have you navigating the city like a pro.

Toting the Tots

The first thing to think about is how best to get around the city. If you have kids who are old enough to walk, then it’s pretty straightforward. Walking is the best way to see the city, and you may get lucky and lull a little one to sleep in the stroller. However, the frequent rain forecasts can dampen that plan, so it’s then best to look to public transportation.

If Paris made buttons that read “I love the Paris Bus” I would sport one. The bus has been a lifesaver for me since I still have one in a stroller, and for some reason, the City has yet to get on board with making ALL the metros accessible for the handicapped and stroller population. If you have a partner who can help you carry the stroller down the stairs, you can do the metro, and at times, a kind stranger will offer to help, but honestly, it’s not worth it. I’ve tweaked my back too many times, and the automatic metro doors are not gracious when closing. I’ve seen several backpacks get caught in the metal jaws and a few close calls with human limbs. Just take the bus. Because you are traveling above ground, it’s a great way to take a mini-tour of the city as you get from point A to point B.

The other option is to rent scooters (trotinettes) for your kids. Globber scooters in Paris are as ubiquitous as the YoYo stroller, and you’ll see kids whizzing down the sidewalks, scooting through parks, and sometimes through the grocery stores. You can rent them by the day here, and it’s a great way to efficiently cross the city or hop on and off a bus with them.

Skip the lines

Here’s a little-known local fact - if there is a line to wait somewhere, museum, airport, etc., and you have a baby in a stroller, just go ask someone who looks official and they will escort you to the front of the line or to the line dedicated for families. And if the first person you ask says non, then find another official-looking person and ask them. Generally speaking, in France, it often takes three “non’s” before you get a yes, but with a baby in your arms or stroller, it usually works immediately. Same thing if you are pregnant - you can roll up to the front of the line. I told my husband that it’s a very tempting reason to keep having kids.

Park-ing it

I’ll get to kid-friendly museums in a minute, but honestly, if you have kids under the age of 5, the charming parks will be your entertainment du jour. Paris may not have a Central Park, but they have several charming parks on both sides of the river, and most of them have big open spaces to let your little ones run wild, and there is usually a playground of sorts. Many parks or even the larger squares dotted throughout the city have a nostalgic merry-go-round (un manège). I think we’ve hit up every merry-go-round in the city over the last few years, and you could easily make it a game to try and visit as many as possible - you’ll find yourself discovering almost every arrondissement.

Below is a list of a few of my tried and true favorite parks:

• Jardin du Luxembourg - 6th arr. - expansive with something for all ages, including pony rides, cafés, a large playground, toy sailboats to sail in the pond and really great people watching.

• Parc Monceau - 8th arr. - perfect for picnics as this is fortunately one park where touching the grass is pas interdite (not prohibited).

• Jardin de Catherine Labouré - 7th arr. - a favorite of mine tucked away behind Le Bon Marché. It feels like an escape to the countryside and has a small playground, grassy areas for picnics and a beautiful little garden.

• Square Boucicaut -7th arr. - another smaller square beside Le Bon Marché with a playground and manège. Everyone wins here…you can leave the kids with your spouse while the other one just “pops in” to Le Bon Marché or the fantastic Zara Home just around the corner.

• Parc Clichy-Batignolles - 17th arr. - a charming smaller park in the popular Batignolles neighborhood and Dose Café is right here as well so a great way to stop for a treat and a coffee before stopping in the park. Again, another manège located here!

A bit of culture, a bit of play

There is a way as a parent, to have your cake and eat it too in Paris and not be relegated to spending all your time at playgrounds. The trick is finding the cultural spots that allow you to soak in an exhibition or two while the kids can play. There are a few art galleries that have outdoor areas where kids can both run, play and have a snack. The French are passionate about transmitting a love of art and culture down to the smallest visitor. Many museums and galleries host temporary ateliers for kids or special spaces dedicated for kids, so be sure to check their website before your visit.

•Musée Rodin - a large part of this museum is outdoors with a gorgeous garden surrounding the main house. We come here often and almost consider it our backyard. The kids can run, play hide-and-seek in the bushes, watch the rabbits that scurry out from the bushes, and there is a great café with indoor and outdoor seating that serves ice cream in the spring and summer.

•Jardin des Plantes/Muséum national d’Histoire naturalle - another great park with a small zoo, botanical gardens and the Natural History Museum. If rocks, minerals and dinosaurs are of interest, this is a great place to add to the list.

•Musée de l’Orangerie - right off the Tuileries so the kids can burn some energy before you arrive and it’s small in size so you can pretty much see almost everything. Often there are atelier spaces for kids as well.

•Musée d’Orsay- a favorite gallery of ours and prominently featured in The Invention of Hugo Caberet.

•Maison de Balzac - the real treat at Balzac’s home are the views and the charming garden where you can lounge and enjoy a treat from Rose Bakery located right on the property.

If you are short on time and want to see some of the major sites without having to traverse the city with little ones, I highly recommend jumping on a boat tour, which offers some of the best views of the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.

And if you don’t have time to find a book before you head to Paris, here are a few of our favorite children’s bookstores where you can find that perfect Parisian story/itinerary - The Red Wheelbarrow/The Red Balloon Bookstore, Smith & Son, Galignani (French and English), Chantelivre (French).

Last tip - if everyone is melting down and you just need a break, head to any boulangerie for a quick picnic spread and head to the nearest park. It may be the best way to truly experience Paris like a Parisian. Bonnes vacances!

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Introducing Contributor, Kathryn Ivey:

Visit her Contributor Page — Explore more of Kathryn’s work

I read Joris-Karl Huysmans’ novel À Rebours (Against the Grain or Against Nature) in the spring of 1992, because it was on the reading list for my Master’s degree in French Literature. This “novel without a plot,” hailed as the ultimate masterpiece of decadent literature, blew me away. I fell in love with its quirky recluse protagonist and with Huysmans’s jeweled vocabulary, tortured syntax, vast erudition, endearing gruffness, and sardonic wit. Eager to know him better, I read two more of his novels for an independent study project. Soon, I decided to write my doctoral dissertation on the representation of temporality in his works.

A few years later, after having passed my doctoral exams, I began devoting my life to Joris-Karl Huysmans and the nine volumes of his complete works, on which I took copious notes. It took me four years to complete my magnum opus, but I received my doctoral degree in 1999. I never got bored with Huysmans, on whom I learned close to everything there was to know. But as much as I admired him as a writer, I was repulsed by his misogyny and virulent antisemitism. This may have caused my research interests to shift away from anything having to do with him soon after I had secured a tenure-track position at a university and published my revised dissertation as a book.

Every summer, from 2003 to 2019, I traveled to France, my native country, and always made sure to spend at least a few days in Paris. For the first few years, I stayed at a hotel in Montparnasse, a vibrant neighborhood, famed for having been a hotbed of artistic life between the two world wars. Renowned artists and writers, including American writers of the Lost Generation such as Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and William Faulkner, would meet at La Coupole, Le Dôme, and La Rotonde, cafés that are still in business today.

More importantly to me, Montparnasse is the site of a very large and beautiful cemetery where many celebrities – writers, artists, singers, actors - are buried, among whom Charles Baudelaire, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Samuel Beckett, Susan Sontag, Agnès Varda, and… Joris-Karl Huysmans. My aunt Agnès, who was a Daughter of Charity and one of the first four women in the world ever to be appointed to a significant position in the Vatican, is buried there too.

I have a special connection to cemeteries, for a couple of reasons:

1. My father, his father, and his grandfather were stonemasons who made most of their living making and carving tombstones. My grandfather designed and built two World War I memorials for his town of Marcq-en-Baroeul, a suburb of Lille, where I was born. My mother owned a flower shop next to the local cemetery, where my father spent countless working hours. My brother and I often played hide-and-seek behind the graves, a number of which were those of family members.

2. I believe that there exists an intangible connection between the living and the dead that is felt most deeply in cemeteries, when we visit the graves of our loved ones who have died, or of those we never knew but admired because they were great artists, musicians, singers, actors, movie directors, historical figures, politicians, etc.

Knowing that Huysmans was buried in the Montparnasse cemetery, I decided that I had to visit his grave.

I entered the cemetery through its main gate, next to which there was a walk-through window where an attendant gave me a paper with a map showing the location of the tombs of about one hundred celebrities buried there. I immediately found Huysmans’s name and located his grave on the map.

Created in the early 19^th century, the Montparnasse cemetery covers 47 acres. It is a lovely, peaceful, and meticulously landscaped green space, its twenty-one sections divided by alleys bordered by a variety of trees and the occasional bench that give it a park-like atmosphere. The older tombs tend to be monumental and quite ornate, often featuring large sculptures in an array of styles. Some wealthy families are buried in mausoleums that resemble small chapels.

I proceeded to head for Huysmans’ grave, while not ignoring along the way those of many other famous people I knew and loved. I walked for quite a while through the many alleys, finally zeroing in on the area of Huysmans’ grave, undertaking a careful search that lasted at least forty-five minutes but led me nowhere. The “second division” of the cemetery, where he is buried, was a labyrinth. I asked a maintenance worker if he could help me, but to no avail. My quest remained fruitless, and I had to leave the cemetery because it was closing time. What made things worse was that I was leaving France the next day. I was crushed and vowed that I would return the following year and find J.-K.’s grave.

My second attempt the following year was a success.

Huysmans’ tomb turned out to be very plain. At the bottom of the gravestone, below the names of several people, including his mother, father, and stepfather, was carved his name, the dates of his birth and death, as well as the words “Président de l’Académie Goncourt,” acknowledging the fact that he had served as the first President of the jury for the Goncourt, France’s most prestigious literary award. There was an orange cloth strewn on the grave, weighted down by stones, on which had been laid a bouquet of artificial blue tulips. I had no clue what the orange cloth meant, except that the color orange is significant in Dutch culture, as are tulips. Huysmans’s father was Dutch, and he was quite proud of his Dutch roots.

I was very moved by the experience of being in front of Huysmans’ grave, closer than I had ever been to a writer whose works I had studied intensely for five years of my life. For a brief moment, I felt that I was communing with him. I thanked him, from the bottom of my heart, for having created exceptional literary works that had enthralled me, offered me a new perspective on late 19^th-century Paris, made me discover new artists and literary works, and led me to perceive my surroundings and look at art in a different way. Of course, I also expressed my utmost gratitude to him for his invaluable contribution to my doctoral degree.

Some years later, in May 2014, I was staying in another Montparnasse hotel before the arrival of a group of University of Pittsburgh students enrolled in a study abroad program that I was directing. Sylvia, the program graduate assistant, was there with me, and I took her to the Montparnasse cemetery. She loved the idea of walking among the graves of great writers, musicians, and artists whom she admired. This time, there were no longer photocopied maps handed out at the cemetery entrance, but a few large, laminated, and rather fancy colored maps that visitors could use through the duration of their visit. Sylvia and I grabbed one, and I immediately looked for Huysmans’ name. To my dismay, it was not on the list of celebrities buried in the cemetery. I immediately walked into the nearby office to inquire about this terrible omission. A man was sitting at a computer, and I asked him very politely why Huysmans’ name was no longer on the map. He raised his head and replied, “Well, nobody ever asks for him.”

His response triggered in my mind a flashback to a brief conversation I had had at least fifteen years earlier with a man who had come to speak to graduate students in French literature at Pitt. He had worked for decades as an editor for Gallimard, a French publishing house, more specifically for its prestigious Pléiade edition. Having their annotated collected works published in Pléiade edition volumes is the utmost consecration for any writer, dead or alive. Bound in fine leather, printed in small Garamond type on very thin Bible paper, and easily recognizable by their gold-stamped spine, these books are exquisite. The Pléiade is the Panthéon of great literature into which only about 250 authors have been admitted. I asked this man why Huysmans had never been published in this prestigious edition. His immediate answer was “because nobody cares about Huysmans.” This felt like a heartless and possibly unfounded assertion to me. I certainly did care a great deal about him.

The Montparnasse cemetery clerk’s similarly disquieting pronouncement made me gasp. It had only come to confirm that Huysmans was not only dead and buried less than a quarter of a mile from the office in which we were standing, but that he was also metaphorically dead in the French collective memory. His works had gone through what the Italian literary scholar Franco Moretti calls “The Slaughterhouse of Literature,” a “terrifying place where literature goes to die,” as Bradley Gorski puts it.[1]

Yet, as Sylvia and I reached his grave, there were a few signs on it that Huysmans and his works were still alive, at least for a few people. A couple of roses and a wilted wildflower had been laid on it, as well as a few stones and a small carved turtle studded with sparkling faux gems. This last item was evocative of chapter IV of À Rebours, in which des Esseintes, the protagonist, a wealthy and eccentric aesthete, purchases a large turtle whose shell he has gilded and encrusted with precious gems. Before long, unable to withstand the weight of those gems, the turtle dies. I found this small token of recognition incredibly touching.

Another fleeting thought crossed my mind, connected to my utter revulsion when I had realized years ago that Huysmans was a staunch anti-Semite. He had stood against Dreyfus for more than ten years during the political scandal that had divided France in the aftermath of the unjust conviction for treason and deportation to Devil’s Island of Alfred Dreyfus, a French army captain who was Jewish. Dreyfus was tried and declared guilty a second time, but he was pardoned by the French President and finally exonerated by a military tribunal. He is buried in the old Jewish section of the Montparnasse cemetery, not very far from Huysmans’ grave. In an ultimate ironic twist of fate, they are now united in death in one of Paris’s most legendary graveyards.

As he rests, hopefully in peace, in the second division of the Montparnasse cemetery, Joris-Karl Huysmans remains very much alive in my memory and intellect, over thirty years after I first saw his name on a Master’s comps reading list.

À bientôt
Elisabeth

[1] Bradley Gorski, “Exit Plan from the Slaughterhouse of Literature,” author’s personal blog, 5/5/2015.

Introducing Contributor, Elisabeth Sauvage-Callaghan

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