Paris bookstore event

OK, personally, I think that I look radioactive in this poster. (I’ve also come to dislike this publicity still of me. I need to get some new ones taken.) This also shows the UK cover of the book, which is not unattractive, but probably my least favorite. All that aside, W.H. Smith, an English-language bookstore in Paris hosted a super fun event. Essentially, it was Watch Kat Cut. I talked and demonstrated how to cut an onion. I talked, and demonstrated how to make a tomato rose. We brought along wine and cheese – this is Paris. The doors were open, and the afternoon summer sun came slanting in through the windows. It was a memorable experience, even if we were running late and busting our ass to get to the store, lugging a 20-pound massive wood cutting board we borrowed from our rental apartment.

Afterward, we went to dinner with the store’s marketing manager, Hannah, a beautiful expat from Wisconsin. Our Scottish friend Clarissa, a 20-year resident of Paris, came along and she recommended a great restaurant in the 7th. Somehow, we picked up a Brit who had come along to the event and he came along. The restaurant was sort of old school, the kind of place that offers veal brains in sauce. We ordered the foie gras, and it arrived as a massive slice. Mike ordered the duck confit, and I had the cassolet. Clarissa ordered the house speciality, duckling served bleu (very rare). I watched the chef “cook” it with a blowtorch in the kitchen. It was the reddest meat that I’ve ever seen. Remarkably, Clarissa gamely ate the whole thing. We went through four bottles of wine for five people as we all compared notes of being expats in France. But at one point, our British friend decided that wasn’t right. “I am bloody French!” he insisted. It was a most fitting last meal in Paris.

The next morning, we got up at 5 a.m. to clean the apartment and pack. We left late, missed our train to Charles de Gaulle and almost missed our flight. I mean, we really almost missed it. We got to the ticket counter and were told the flight had closed. Mike breathlessly countered that we had checked in online, and for some reason, they relented. We rushed through security, passport control and got on the plane as the doors closed. Why do we always seem to leave countries running?

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Filed under book tour tales, Paris

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