By Agnes Desarthe
At forty-three, Myriam has been a spouse, mom, and lover—but by no means a restauranteur. while she opens Chez Moi in a quiet local in Paris, she has no concept how you can run a enterprise, yet armed basically along with her love of cooking, she is set to attempt. slightly capable of pay the hire, Myriam secretly sleeps within the eating room and bathes within the kitchen sink, whereas suffering to come back to phrases with the painful stories of her prior. yet quickly sufficient her delectable food brings her many friends to Chez Moi, and Myriam unearths that she may well get a moment probability at existence and love. Redolent with the points of interest, smells, and tastes of Paris, Chez Moi is a captivating tale that might attract the numerous readers who fell in love with Joanne Harris’s Chocolat and Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate.
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Additional info for Chez Moi
She has had two previous novels translated into English: Five Photos of My Wife (2001), short-listed for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize and the Jewish Quarterly Fiction Prize, and Good Intentions (2002). ADRIANA HUNTER has been working as a literary translator since 1998, and has now translated over thirty books from the French, including two other novels by Agnès Desarthe. She lives in Norfolk with her husband and their three children. Praise for Chez Moi “Chez Moi is a delectable confection of renewal and hope, peppered by surprises and sweetened by friendship, set in a little restaurant in Paris.
We glide along gently until the next hole, and then peer down it in dismay. I haven’t got the strength any more, we think, and I deserve better than this, it’s about time someone helped me, it’s about time there was a hand to guide mine. And all around there are nothing but arms swinging aimlessly. Everyone’s tired. Husbands, wives, friends, everyone’s had enough at the same time and that’s when - but only if we’re very lucky, only if we’re not afraid or if we’re mad enough to pounce on the furtive bait - that’s when love comes along.
No, because I can actually do everything I claim I can. I can wield spatulas like a juggler with his batons. Like a contortionist, I can supplely activate several different parts of my body independently: thickening a sauce with one hand while separating eggs and tying filou pastry parcels with the other. True, teenagers with fuzz on their lips, spots on their foreheads and greasy hair under their kitchen boys’ caps can master the amber colour of an impossibly unctuous caramel, they can fillet a mullet without losing one milligram of flesh, and stitch their crepinette sausages with all the dedication of Penelope.