Stuff Parisians Like
Discovering the Quoi in the Je Ne Sais Quoi
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- €9.99
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- €9.99
Publisher Description
In the tradition of the New York Times bestseller Stuff White People Like, a tongue-in-cheek homage to Parisians.
To be mistaken for a Parisian, readers must buy the newspaper Le Monde, fold it, and walk. Then sit at a café and make phone calls. Be sure to order San Pellegrino, not any other kind of fizzy water. They shouldn't be surprised when a waiter brings out two spoons after they order le moelleux au chocolat- it is understood that the dessert is too sinfully delicious not to share. Go to l'île Saint-Louis-all Parisians are irredeemably in love with that island. Feel free to boldly cross the street whenever the impulse strikes-pedestrian crosswalks are too dangerous. If they take a cruise on the Seine, they will want to stand outside, preferably with their collar popped up. If they want to decorate, may we suggest the photographs of Robert Doisneau? To truly be cool in Paris, own an iPhone, wear Converse sneakers, and order sushi. And as they stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens, remember-they can't go wrong wearing black.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
"Tepid city for a tepid people" is this satirical survey's sniffy verdict on what is apparently the world's dullest cultural epicenter. Magny, the sommelier at a Paris wine-tasting school, nods at felicitous urban stuff (Berthillon's ice cream shop, the Place des Vosges), fashion dogmas, and quirky idioms (putain "whore" is the all-purpose intensifier in his Euro-trashy circles), but these are rare respites in a comprehensive attack on Parisians' rancid characters and deluded mores. The author insists that Parisian women are sexless and uptight, that Parisian men all seem gay, and that both sexes are haughty, nasty, neurotic, hypocritical, and maddeningly hard to fire. What they really like, it seems, is pretentious conversation, feigned angst that passes for intellectual depth, being coddled by bureaucracy while longing for more entrepreneurial climes, and feeling superior to tourists. At the heart of Magny's critique is his boredom with Paris, its lack of a singles' scene and dearth of "cool bars" and "fun clubs" a complaint that sets up a self-serving plug for his own wine bar. This book is essentially a party boy's snide polemic against a city that values intelligence and seriousness. Photos.
