French women don't get fat, eh?
Set free from work too early today and this is where I ended up, watching Trish's Paris Adventure, or more like another blonde, Oirish Nigella wit boobs cooking up a storm with a West Brit accent. She's no Rachel Allen, thanks Got; watching Rachel's Easy Entertaining is about as entertaining as eating my toenails: how the rich and priviledged promote gremolata and macaroons as effortless dinner party fare through their aquiline noses is somehow too depressing when you're eating cabbage soup (again) and have no friends to cook for.
Trish was a la cite with yummy mummy supreme, Anne-Charlotte, prettily chic in a pressed shirtwaister and obligatory patriotic manicure. How, Anne-Charlotte, do you keep so svelte when surrounded by patisseries and madeleines?
"Bien sur, Trish, we Parisiennes just don't eat. For petit dejeuner, un cafe et un Vogue cigarette...it is our duty to be presentable. It is our pride. I am in agreement with this maxim."
Fine. Bloody fine. This reminds me of that book, French Women Don't Get Fat which I read many moons ago. Obviously I did not heed the advice, or else I'd be sitting in Saint-Germain with my size four arse pertly wedged on my Gallic lover's lap and nibbling some green beans.
The book advises that one can have one's cake and eat it; just not all of the cake, nay, maybe only a thirtieth of the cake. The author suggests a lot of chewing and self-deprivation, but all in a worthwhile cause - to look good. But for whom? Yourself (hmm, ok). Your partner (hmm, yeah that'll work at 4 in the morning passing the chippers). For society in general, so we don't have to end up gazing at lumbering beauties on the Metro? It almost seemed to say that we, as women, must look good (read thin), as it's our only valued contribution to the world.
The most aggravating part of the book is where she suggests going to a dinner party and sipping one glass of bubbly all night. One. Glass. I'm sorry, was this book called How to Be a Complete Slobbering Bore?
If I go to a party I want to have fun. Same as life. This life, ladies, is the only one we have (well, until my reincarnation as a llama) so I say, Fuck the Rules, I'm breaking out and having my tiny cake and eating it.
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5 comments:
I tend to dislike cookery shows full stop. Although I've found myself getting a bit sucked into Sophie Dahl's floaty, cosy, look-I'm-in-a-bookshop-now one despite myself. She's just so damn pretty.
Also, mmmm...CAKE.
The best cookery show was Two Fat Ladies, too bad one of them died. At least you knew they ate the stuff they made.
Rachel Allen and her mashrooms.
Gold Digger.
French chicks get fat in the right places.
Neck, underarm.
Not those places, I mean.
I'm with Tuesday kid. The only cooking show hosts you'd want to play out with would be the two fat ladies, or nowadays perhaps with the surviving one. And Nigella. I am a bloke, after all. But she's at her best when well rounded: a bas les skinnies! You just watch the big girls who've realised that no-one else cares having fun with all the boys and with their dinners and forget all that thin crap.
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