Christmas in Ivry

This past year has been a hard one. Like so many people I know, death has hung over me. Last year we stayed home and watched the family open presents via zoom. My husband had just lost his brother and I was frozen by the loss of my mother. So making merry was not in the schedule. But, as I have written before, my favorite Christmas stories are not about Santa Claus. Nor have they involved decorated trees and presents.

I’ve been rereading a book I published (via Booktrope) back in 2014. It was based on the year I spent in Europe as a witless, clueless blunderer and, besides a lot of really bad writing (sigh), I came across this memory of another favorite Christmas:

And so once again, I packed my duffel and hit the road, only this trip to Paris would be quite different from my first. My aunt lived in an apartment in Ivry, a working-class suburb south-east of the city. The apartment had just three rooms—a kitchen, a living room/dining room, and a bedroom. No bathroom. There was a communal bathroom down the hall—for the primarily Greek residents of the fourth floor—and a bucket in the closet for “emergencies.”
We arrived late in the evening having taken a wrong turn or two. Then, exhausted and unable to find suitable parking, we abandoned the car in a dark alley and made our way past overflowing garbage cans to the apartment building. Lover boy greeted us at the door but didn’t offer any help with my aunt’s massive suitcases. I could understand why he’d gone AWOL. He had the scrawny physique of someone who would flunk basic training so why even try. Upon seeing her lover after a week’s absence, Auntie, overcome with passion, dragged him into the bedroom where he would have to pay dearly for her efforts to get him asylum in the United States. I curled up on a couch near the window. Above my head hung a birdcage covered by a table cloth. I watched as snow fell on the colorful umbrellas in the square below until finally falling asleep.

The next morning I awoke covered in birdseed as the parakeets above me demanded to be uncovered. “Alright, alright,” I said uncovering the cage. Two parakeets, one yellow and one green, stopped their squawking to marvel at the sun pouring in through the window and then changed their tune to something more pleasant.
“I’m making cherry pies! Get freshened up and come help me!” My aunt yelled from the kitchen. She’d already assembled three pies and was covered in flour.
Lover boy, evidently exhausted by a night of passion, slept until noon. He stayed up most nights, Auntie explained, drinking red wine at a neighbor’s apartment, chain-smoking as he and his compatriots debated politics in their native language. They were all socialists and not communists, she said. Your uncle is wrong. She’d fallen in love with Che Guevara. So romantic!

I helped her make pies all day, rolling dough and sweetening fruit. That night, Christmas Eve, we took the metro to the Eiffel Tower and wandered down the boulevards, oohing and aahing at the Christmas lights and holiday decorations. Most of the restaurants and stores were closed, but there was a vendor on almost every corner selling roasted chestnuts. They smelt better than they tasted.
Christmas in France is a daylong feast. People of all different nationalities came and went from my aunt’s apartment, either crowding around the table to eat and drink or, crowding around her small television to watch the horse races. First we laid out platters of cold cuts, salamis, olives, and pickles served with a pink Chablis. Then a fish broth with baguettes. A few hours later, someone brought a roast goose and spinach quiche. There was a brief respite mid-afternoon as the ladies chatted and the men watched horse races. At the end of the day, we ate my auntie’s pies and drank champagne. I thought we were finished, but then someone arrived with a fruit and cheese platter.
I gained not only several pounds but a new boyfriend: a Frenchman in his late eighties or early nineties, who would only admit to being forty.
“Je suis âgé de quarante ans!” He boasted, throwing his short arm over my shoulders as we sat side by side sipping cognac.
“Mais oui, bien sûr!” The others laughed as someone brought forth a Polaroid camera and took pictures. My face looked swollen and my stringy hair unwashed. But he kissed the photo and swore he would keep it always. A picture of his amour. And then he grabbed my face with both of his crusty hands and gave me a passionate and juicy kiss, sending all the other guests into giggling fits.
They took Polaroids of that too.

My French boyfriend!

The day after Christmas, I caught the train back to Gunthersblum, leaving my aunt happily peeing in a chamber pot for love everlasting. It was the last time I ever saw her. Glowing as she baked her signature cherry pies for unemployed socialists. Cheerfully planning a future that would include a loving and faithful husband all the while with a twinkle in her soft brown eyes and her dimpled cheeks pink with joy.

I probably won’t get the chance to add another post before Christmas so Happy Holidays everyone. Be safe and warm and surrounded by love.

Blasts from the Past

For the next week my publisher is having a Valentine’s Day giveaway.  At first I didn’t think I should participate.  My characters are generally in such desperate plights that romance is the last thing on their mind.  However,  they are all young women and thus it is impossible to avoid clumsy flirtations, heart palpitations, despondency and yes, sex.  Particularly for my youngest, Riley O’Tannen of the Graduation Present, a self-proclaimed klutz who misinterprets a young man’s interest until it’s almost too late.

Riley’s exploits are very loosely based on my own goof-ball  adventures europe5dollars1in Europe 40 years ago. In 2014 I came clean in a series of posts listed here:


Three cute French guys and my traveling companion Carolyn from “Oeufs in a Van”

Fortunately I saved many of the letters and pictures from that time.


Carolyn gets carried out to sea by cute German guy in “The Samwitch Stand.”

Yes, as you can probably tell most of our time was spent hanging out with “cute” guys and trying not to get carried out to sea.


Letter from cute Italian guy in “Pierre Andrei Makes His Move”

Sigh. Do you have any embarrassing travel stories?  Fess up!

BTW:  Two other authors I’ve introduced you to on this blog are having give-aways:


Duke Miller’s unforgettable and poetic memoir of twenty-five years as a relief worker

Walking Home Front

Arleen William’s compelling glimpse into the lives of emigres in America


Come Sing a Song of Joy!

Santa gave me sniffles and coughs for Christmas (or it could have been a gift from the world’s most adorable snotty-nosed nine month old).  At any rate, my energy level is at an all time low. So I’m going to be lazy and repost a New Year’s Eve post from a few years back.

December 2014: Once you get to a certain age let’s face it. New Year’s Eve is about as exciting as taking out the trash. In fact I can’t remember the last time I actually stayed up until midnight. But there was a time when I drank champagne and toasted in the New Year in something other than sweats… really!

My most memorable New Year’s Eve was the inspiration for this scene from the now out-of-print book: The Graduation Present.  The main character, Riley O’Tannen, has to catch a New Year’s Day flight home out of Frankfurt Germany. However, she spends the night before partying and arrives at her uncle’s house with barely time to spare before they have to head for the airport. Here’s the excerpt:

I felt like telling Uncle Bob  that it was his fault for leaving me slightly tipsy at the club surrounded by young officers and their dates. His fault that light snow fell as we floated along the Rhine in a tide of other young adults, Beethoven’s “Ode of Joy” blaring from every restaurant barge, café and tavern:

Freude, schöner Götterfunken
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken.

Giddily we’d made up our own lyrics:

Weiner Schnitzel,
Bitte Danke,
Guten Tagen, Wiedersehen! 
snowglobeWe were in a snow-globe world. Sam from Colorado, Elke on the prowl, warm hearted Gil and a few others whose names I never caught, tap dancing on cobblestone streets, singing silly verses and laughing till our breath froze.

We arrived at the station just as the last train to Heidelberg was pulling out. “Run!” Sam yelled as we joined a crowd of young Germans rushing the train. Once on board, the chaotic scene made it impossible for our group to stay together. Unconcerned with the others, Gil grabbed my hand and pulled me through the mob.

Two cars down we finally found a seat and snuggled together by the window as the train rambled along. For once in my life I didn’t feel the need to talk. I was content to listen to the riotous laughter and singing coming from the other cars, while Gil fiddled with my long, stringy hair “looking for split ends,” he claimed with a chuckle.

CastleHeidelberg Castle sits on a hill overlooking a generally quiet campus town. Its fortress walls, which easily span several city blocks, were lit by a barrage of pastel lights. The crowd erupted in cheers as we entered the station and leapt from the train. The idea was to get as close as possible to the castle for the best view and so the mob snaked its way up the hill, along the route buying beer in red plastic cups and kazoos that sounded like drunken mallards from gypsy street vendors.  I realized in that particular moment we were not German or French or Italian or American; those labels were meaningless as we marched uphill to storm the storybook castle singing a song whose lyrics were universal. fireworksWe’d just managed to reach the medieval center of town when the fireworks began, first as fizzles in the falling snow, and then, mini starbursts.  These were promptly followed by sonic booms echoing in the clouds high above. The show continued for thirty minutes, gaining in intensity until the sky was filled with iridescent glitter raining down upon us. The finale, a blinding explosion of silver and gold, exposed armor-clad knights and their bejeweled ladies standing on the battlements in defiance of time and death.


Happy New Year’s everyone!

Happy Hour and Frisky Little Titties


Occupation of Germany post WWII

In the early seventies Germany was very much an occupied country. According to Wikipedia, at one time there were over 196 military “installations,” which could be anything from an army barracks to a training area, storage facility or depot. Gradually they’ve been closed or consolidated; today there are only 42 and that number will be dropping in the next couple of years unless the cold war heats up. Let’s hope, dear God, it does not.

The only Americans who really understand what it’s like to live an occupied county are Native Americans. The rest of us cannot imagine having foreign troops on our soil, driving their tanks down our roads, building their bases on land that could be used for housing, disrupting our festivals, and, in many cases, sadly, raping our women. I’m not saying it wasn’t necessary to have so many troops stationed there. I’m just saying it affected the psyche of both the occupiers and the occupied. From the German perspective: Americans bought their food cheaply on army bases, received gas coupons to alleviate the exorbitant price of petro, and, with the money they were saving, hired local women to scrub their toilets.

Happy Hour

The college students I met reacted by becoming well versed on American atrocities and thus were more than happy to jump at the chance to point out just what an evil group of materialistic, war-mongers we Americans were. I’d been raised politely and thus didn’t point out Germany’s recent past, besides I knew they were lashing out however they could. And the Americans? Well, they tried to maintain little oceans of Americana on the bases – softball games, Indian Princesses, Cub Scouts and of course that very necessary of American traditions: Happy Hour.

It was the night of a thousand peanuts; casings and skins littered the bar and floor. When one bowl emptied, another was brought forth from beneath the bar to replace it as gin and tonics replaced Heinekens, shirts were loosened, ties were flung to the side, and jokes became raunchier and raunchier. Happy hour at the officers’ club was in full swing.

This week I’m throwing in an extra excerpt from the Graduation Present.  Our young protagonist (Riley) has just been picked up from the airport by her uncle and they’re driving through the German countryside to his home.  The captivating Gil and Oncle Boob are in the front seat chatting as Riley enjoys the scenery from the back.

This green landscape seemed so clean, so pure. The land of happy villagers, peaceful, loving peasants and urbane, chic, and sophisticated Europeans. I’d arrived.
“Gilberto, did you get a look at the knockers on Lou’s new secretary?” Uncle Bob blurted out, destroying my revelry.
“Molly, you mean Molly, right?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s her name. You know, the big ones are fun to cuddle but there is something to be said for frisky little titties. The French have a saying that the perfect size tit fits into a champagne glass. What do you think of that Gilberto? You like the little bitty titties?”
“Ah, Uncle Bob. I’m in the backseat,” I reminded him.
“So? You got a thing against tits?”
“I can’t believe I actually thought you were a spy.”
UncleBobSpies don’t like tits?”

Through Other Eyes

The first time I went to Europe, so full of romantic illusions and so desperately naive that it’s painful to think back upon that time, many things took me by surprise. First, it wasn’t Disneyland.

“Jan at fifteen” by Connemoira

Second, the war which seemed so long ago to me, still hung over the continent as if it had happened the day before I arrived.  I will never forget seeing WWII, not from across an ocean, but through the eyes of people who’d lived through it and for whom it remained a constant shadow.

However, what gave me the most pause were the lowered expectations of the young people I met. In America, everyone wants to be a movie star or athlete. In America, it’s drummed into our heads that not only could everyone go to college but everyone should want to go to college, as well as buy a house, a car, twelve television sets and membership at the local golf course. To do otherwise was – for my generation – lazy, degenerate behavior, ultimately resulting in a life spent on the street with a bottle of gin hidden in a paper bag.

Thus, running into young villagers perfectly happy to remain at home, with a life no better than their parents, caused me to rethink American values.

I lived in a village unchanged for hundreds of years and populated by people of Slavic descent who’d migrated there for political reasons. As in many small villages in Europe, during the day there were practically no young people on the streets, only old women tending small children. The parents of the children and young people old enough to work, commuted to one of the larger cities nearby.villagepeg

I met Inga and Hans only because they were both on vacation; he was on leave from the army and she was taking a short breather before training to become a shop clerk. They lived with their folks and had no immediate plans to move out. Nor was college or a car a remote possibility.

From the Graduation Present: It depressed me to see young people my age without the hunger to change the world or to rise up the ladder to what we in American defined as success; more money, more power; greater knowledge than our parents. But, on the other hand, they were happy, content, and secure, on a path that wouldn’t lead to an uncomfortable place. I envied them in a way. If I told my parents: “I just want to live with you the rest of my life, work in the local store, maybe travel a bit,” they’d blow a gasket.

I regret to say that after I returned stateside, I got a letter from Inga and Hans asking if they could stay with me when they came to the United States. My life was then in such flux that I never responded.

Oncle Boob’s Fest Hopping Strategy

I found out the hard way that in many parts of the world smiling at strangers is considered very odd behavior –

Grandmother after more than a few vodkas.

Grandmother after more than a few vodkas.

which presented a problem for me as my father had ground into my head from early on that frowning causes your jowls to droop prematurely and if I didn’t maintain a cheerful countenance at all times I would look like my grandmother.

Riley O (in the Graduation Present) is similarly clueless as she wanders through the tiny village where her uncle lives for the first time:

 “The square plots of yard, along with driveways and garages, began disappearing as I neared the center of town. Ancient stone buildings huddled together on the streets, forcing the few pedestrians—primarily middle-aged women dragging children behind them on leashes while juggling canvas bags full of produce—to walk in the road. They scowled at me as if I were a child murderer. They even scowled when I smiled at them.”

In Germany this no-no flies out the window during fest season, a two week long orgy of beer, wine, sex, and singing during which the entire country sheds its stoicism in favor of a frat party mentality. To illustrate this point, an indiscretion committed during fest season cannot be used as grounds for a divorce so if you’re going to cheat on your frau, do it in September. During these two weeks, villages scattered throughout the wine growing regions throw street parties featuring bratwurst smothered in onions and sauerkraut, tastings of the local wine and beer, and sometimes music. In the larger towns the fests are held in giant, circus-like tents with picnic tables, polka bands and beer maids in their sexy costumes. Everyone drinks, everyone sings and a whole lot of flirting goes on.festjpeg

Many young people engage in the sport of “fest-hopping,” mapping out routes that’ll insure they hit the most number of beer-tastings possible.  Uncle Bob (whom the villagers called Oncle Boob after his niece Riley arrives in town) is a champion fest-hopper. In the following excerpt he is forced to re-evaluate his strategy while he and Riley await the arrival of a late friend.

 He had meticulously drawn out our route the night before on a map he’d attained of all the fests in the area. He’d rated each and every one in case we weren’t able to attain his ultimate goal of visiting them all. The prize, which he held a record number of times, was bragging rights at happy hour. On his map, the Must Visit fests were circled in red while the Nice to Visits were circled in blue. Each fest was also given a priority level of one through five.
“I’d better reassess my plans,” he complained after another half hour passed. He pulled out the map and began studying his fest-hopping route with all the seriousness of a four star general planning a sneak attack against a much better equipped enemy. “The Leusdorf fest will have to be downgraded to a four. It’s too far east. We couldn’t possibly swing back to Klingerbrick and still make Rheinfell. Goddamnit Newsome! It’s almost ten!”

Excerpt: Eggs with Hats

Uncle Bob's special Eggs with Hats garnish!

Oncle Boob in the kitchen!

Eating, sleeping, taking a bath and just plain goofing off. Those are the things I do and I assume I’m not alone. However, in best-selling novels like The DaVinci Code the characters run amok for days without even taking a leak. Now I don’t think that’s a nice thing to do to one’s characters. So I always make sure to include bathrooms, kitchens and bedrooms in my stories. My inspiration for the kitchen scenes in The Graduation Present came from my dear, sweet (right!) Uncle Bob’s love affair with what he called: “Eggs with Hats.” They were also his remedy for hangovers, along with tomato juice with a sprig of celery and just a wee dash of the hair of the dog (vodka).

During the year I stayed with him I’d often wake in the middle of the night to the sound of eggs sizzling and know that he’d risen from the recliner ravenous because he’d skipped dinner in favor of a post Happy Hour snooze. Sometimes he’d be having a conversation with the nasty yellow cat who’d adopted him or listening to his favorite record at the time, Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows.

Now Eggs with Hats are quite easy to make, however I’ve seen them referred to online as “Toads in a Hole.” To the English this is a sacrilege.  A real Toad in a Hole contains sausage and Yorkshire cream and apparently takes skill to make correctly.

IMG_3367American Eggs with Hats have only three ingredients and if a man with a hangover can make them in the middle of the night, well, need I say more?

Here’s what you’ll need:

  • eggs
  • white bread (preferably Wonder Bread)
  • butter
  • a skillet
  • a stove
  • a shot glass


Perfectly made Eggs with Hats

Prep time: Depends on how much you had to drink.
Cooking time: Till done. No longer than fifteen minutes on high heat or you’ll set off the smoke detectors.



  1. Lay your pieces of bread out on the counter. Take your shot glass, turn it upside down and punch a hole through each piece of bread. Fill the shot glass with vodka and add to the tomato juice.
  2. Melt butter in skillet (use as much as you want. When butter begins sizzling, drop each piece of bread into the skillet along with cutouts (the “hats)
  3. Let crisp on both sides briefly.
  4. Crack eggs and drop them into the holes. Let eggs cook till cooked to your preference (runny or solid yolks). Remove from skillet and put the hat on the eggs.

Tip from Uncle Bob:  To make them even tastier, slather with peanut butter.

Tip from Uncle Bob: To make them even tastier, slather with peanut butter.

Now the excerpt:
“They tasted good, those eggs with hats. I ate like I hadn’t eaten for days, even soaking up the runny yolks with the crispier edges of the fried bread. It felt good to have protein in me. And real orange juice, not that orange-colored water. But it was hell waiting for Uncle Bob to come back downstairs and explain what was going on. Why did Lou Raferman have Charlie’s car towed away? Why did I have to go to Paris?
The weather had changed overnight. Frost covered the lawns. As the sky grew lighter, children rode past the house on their way to school, bundled against the cold in such a way that only their red cheeks and noses were visible. In the distance, the always-on-time train hooted through the river valley. Omie emerged to sweep her front porch, a scarf sharply tied under her chin and thick black galoshes on her tiny feet. The concrete porch wasn’t particularly dirty, but it was her habit to sweep it every morning. As she did, she took clandestine glances at Uncle Bob’s house. I figured she would be over later to question why an unmarked moving van full of soldiers had pulled into his driveway early in the morning and disappeared with a Fiat; she spoke no English and Uncle Bob, little German, so the story she would circulate through the town would probably contain no element of truth.”






Excerpt: In Honor of Those Boys


American Military Cemetery in Normandy

Ten years ago, just before the sixtieth anniversary of D-Day, my husband and I took a trip to Normandy. We stayed in the tiny fishing village of Grandcamp Maisy on the marshlands below Pointe du Hoc, a 100 foot promontory overlooking the English Channel. Because the cliff was the highest point between the beaches which came to be known as Omaha and Utah, the Germans massively fortified it.


The painting depicting the Siege of Pointe du Hoc

Every morning we would have our coffee beneath a large painting depicting the US Ranger Battalion’s insanely brave assault and capture of the pointe using ropes and other mountain climbing tools.
Anyone traveling in Europe can’t help but be reminded of the war.  Even a naive and often silly young woman, like Riley O’Tannen is profoundly affected by the stories she hears.


Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

From the Graduation Present (currently out of print)

“I thought of those young kids from small-town America, about to jump from a rattletrap plane into the unknown, for that one last moment believing Hollywood crap of fame and glory, then dropping with fewer chances than a duck in a shooting arcade into an alien land, a land they’d been assured would include cheering crowds and willing women, which they would never see because they would splat like frogs into marshes filled with dung or float to earth full of bullet holes. And they were the lucky ones.”

Excerpts – Putzfraus and Bidets

I always dreamt of seeing Europe (the castles, the quaint villages, the timeless cities) so as soon as I was old enough I jumped at the chance to study foreign languages.
My first French teacher, Madame Burkholder, had us spend all our time memorizing dialogues in which we pretended to be young French students going to the library. It must have worked because after three years, the only phrases I remember to this day are Ou est la biblioteque? and Le matin papa apporter mon frère, ma soeur et moi au musee du Louvre
Two phrases I have never ever used in all my travels.  Who asks to go to the library in a country where they can barely speak let alone read the native language?
In high school I decided to branch out to German.
HerrAsmusMy teacher, Herr Asmus (that really was his name), looked just like Ichabod Crane.  His class was held in the same room used for Sex Education.  Thus my most enduring memory of Hairy Asmus was of him turning to a diagram on the wall beside him and snorting in disgust “How can I be expected to teach German with this  giant penis staring me in the face????”  We spent most of our time pretending to be tour guides.  The only phrase I remember from that class is:  Im Jahr 1950 König Ludwig der Zweite hatte diese berühmte Schloss geschlossen.
 Since no one in Germany ever asked me when King Louis the Second closed his famous castle,  I never had a chance to use that phrase either.  In fact the first person in Germany I  tried to communicate with was a cleaning lady.  That experience inspired the following scene from the Graduation Present.  Riley O’Tannen has just spent her first morning in the tiny town of Gunthersblum trying to communicate with her uncle’s cleaning lady (Putzfrau).  Around noon she receives a call from her uncle and takes off for Worms where he works hoping to have her first real german meal, but instead she is picked up at the train station by the intriguing young man she met the night before, Gil, and driven to the Officers’ Club for a burger.


From Chapter Two of the Graduation Present





“Your uncle’s only on his first martini,” Gil explained wryly. “So, he sent me to get you. He’s only got an hour for lunch which doesn’t leave a lot of time for …”

“Booze.” I muttered to which he laughed.

When I’m nervous or self-conscious I become a regular Chatty Cathy and so it was with poor Gil as we drove through the streets of Worms. First he had to hear all about the train station that was also the Post Office, the conductor who thought I’d changed identities between stations and kept demanding to see my passport, the Putzfrau and her cleaning fetishes and finally, regretfully, my confusion over the two toilets in Uncle Bob’s bathroom.


What do Americans use bidets for?  Soaking their tired footsies, of course.


“Well, that seals it,” he teased. “You are a country bumpkin! The second toilet is a bidet. It’s for washing up that part of your anatomy after you go.”



What’s the most useless phrase you ever learned in a language class?
Next time:  cooking lesson with Oncle Boob.  Eggs with Hats, the sure cure for any hangover.

Excerpts – Lapin au Jus

For the next couple of weeks I’ll be posting excerpts from the Graduation Present.  I’ve chosen these excerpts based on early reader feedback.  I hope you enjoy them!
The following scene takes place in a Parisian restaurant where the FrenchRestaurantmain character (Riley O’Tannen) is having dinner with her chaperone (the wealthy, mysterious  and very gay Lou Raferman) and Mrs. C. (an English acquaintance and founding member of the Deadly Dames Book Club)


“How do you say ‘you are such wonderful waiters’?” I asked Lou, interrupting their conversation. He arched his eyebrows.

“How many glasses of wine have you had, my dear?”

“Oh, I dunno. They just keep giving me more.”

“Well, perhaps you should pace yourself. The main course is next and it’s something you want to save your palate for. People make reservations months in advance just to taste Chef Michel’s lapin au jus!”

Lapin, I thought. What the heck was that? Before I had a lapinchance to ask, the main course arrived. The lump of browned meat on my plate slightly resembled a very plump chicken thigh. It was covered with sauce and dressed with grilled celery.

“Doesn’t ‘lapin’ mean ‘rabbit’?” I asked Lou.

“No, it means ‘Hare,’” he replied rather stiffly.

I poked the meat with my fork. It jiggled. Not only did they expect me to eat a bunny, but an underdone bunny. A bunny butchered by some horrible man in a dirty apron, then hung outside a shop to drip blood onto the sidewalk. Once it had bunnyhad soft fur and a funny little nose. Once it had hopped merrily through fields doing harm to no one. Then it was slaughtered.

“I can’t eat this,” I said to the waiter. “I’m too full. J’ai trop mange.” The waiter looked at me aghast.

“My dear, it’s the chef’s signature dish! You must eat it.” Lou commanded, “Mange, mange!”

“It’s a bunny, Mr. Raferman. A bunny!”

“It is a hare and you must eat it!”

I began to sob. “I can’t.” Tears ran down my face and onto the bunny. The waiter grabbed my plate.

chef louis“Végétarienne!” He sniffed. Lou’s mouth fell open. He glanced towards the kitchen as though at any moment the chef would emerge with a cleaver. Then he stood up, threw money on the table, and announced we were leaving.

Motto: If you insult the chef in Paris, run for your life.