David Lebovitz

I enjoyed most of the book, though Lebovitz's humor can be a bit catty at times. The last, say, third or so of the book felt a bit more aggressively critical than the rest. I'm chalking it up to the fact that the book was written at the very beginning of Lebovitz's time in Paris, so I think a lot of the commentary is still coming from a place of culture shock as opposed to genuine negativity. I was just surprised at just how grouchy some of the chapters can come across considering this is all coming from a man who just up and decided to move his entire life to Paris. I thought he would be a little more enamored than curmudgeonly about the differences between San Francisco and Paris because of that courageous drive the decision seemed to reflect.

This is my first Lebovitz book, including his cookbooks, but I'm not turned off enough to not try checking out his other work. I will admit that, though I was a little disappointed with his tone in places, he still provided some valuable information for anyone planning on visiting or moving to Paris. I also can't speak for Lebovitz's recipes since I haven't tried any of them yet, but the Chouquettes aux Pepites de Chocolat recipe looks divine and is very high on my baking list.

Oh, and the back section where he provides resources and addresses is wonderful, and he should definitely be commended for thinking of including it. There are only a couple defunct websites, but the rest have great stuff that can't really be found outside of big cities with gourmet shops.… (mais)

If you are secretly (or not so secretly) fascinated by the sight of car wrecks (where no one is injured, of course), you might really like this book.

That's not why I bought it, or course; I thought I'd be reading a breezy memoir about moving to Paris and buying a fabulous, though a tad run down, old apartment and the joys of renovating it. I imagined living vicariously through the author as he haunted the flea markets and found fabulous old doors, lamps, hardware, crockery, etc. Sure, the title says "disasters", too, but they're probably the run of the mill disasters everyone faces when building/renovating, right? Someone painted the kitchen the color meant for the baths, or switched the hot and cold taps.

Not even close. In fact, looking at the title, I'm not at all sure where the "delights" come into play. Maybe book 2? Because I gotta tell you, after reading this, I have a lot more sympathy for people who burn the house down for the insurance money. I also have a new appreciation for just how much worse Australian real estate could be. I've always tried to be positive or, at least tactful, about my current home country, but I've never held back on how bent I believe their real estate industry is, particularly Melbourne's (I'm not wrong either: Victoria has been cited numerous times for fraudulent real estate practices; not that it slows anybody down). But boy howdy, Paris makes it clear Aussies are in the minor leagues.

But the buying dramas (did you know you need a medical examination to get a home loan?) were just the amuse bouche; the real nightmare, the one you can't stop reading because it's like a train that just keeps on wrecking itself, a metal snowball gaining mass and spreading destruction, is the renovations. There. are. no. words.

This is where I stop to give a heartfelt thanks to my Daddy, an electrical engineer, and for the grace of god that I was born curious. Foreign country or not (and you can't discount how big a difference that makes - even if the foreign country speaks your language), I'm fortunate that I know enough about electricity, plumbing, and (very) basic building construction to suspect when something isn't right, or safe. Lebovitz was not so blessed and neither was his partner, although he was at least Parisian, and so was able to bridge the language - and sometimes the cultural - gaps, as well as throw well timed fits of temper. But even so, what happens, what they end up with... nope. Still no words. I cannot imagine what I'd have done in his shoes, but it probably would have been neither legal or sane.

It ends well enough, but, though he doesn't give any real figures, one has to assume he had a shit ton of money somewhere because by my rough reckoning, that renovation cost him more than 3 times the original budget.

Throughout this nightmare, he does paint a vivid and gorgeous picture of Paris markets and food, both of which, from what I read here, are better experienced as a tourist. And most of the chapters end with a recipe; some easy, and some for the experienced baker. At some point in the future I'll be giving his Swedish meatball recipe a shot.

And Swedish meatballs leads me to this final thought: there is nothing on this earth that would ever compel me to stand in line for 4 1/2 freaking hours in Ikea. Nothing. Not if the kitchen cabinets were made of solid mahogany and gilded in solid gold. Omg...4.5 hours in Ikea...… (mais)

Ma foi! Quel plaignant! I might have given it more stars except for the unrelenting complaints about the surly French. We’ve traveled to France quite often and I haven’t really met as many as he seems to have. Couple that with the incessant commentary on the delicious dentist, cute fishermen, beautiful bakers...why? It’s as off putting as a hetero always commenting on women’s looks. Beauty is skin deep. Appealing certainly, but there’s more to a person than their looks. My own complaints aside, I mostly enjoyed the book, enjoyed reading about Paris and the French quirkiness (when they weren’t being nasty) and the recipes were scrumptious!… (mais)