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Authors: Elizabeth Bard

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After one particularly bleak morning of visits, Paul went back to the flat to take a nap and my mother and I walked over to
the bric-a-brac shops on the rue Oberkampf. We looked at an art deco vanity with a pond-sized circular mirror, and a set of
ceramic pantry jars lined up in descending-size order like Russian dolls:
farine, sucre, café, thé, sel, poivre
. They were so much more civilized than the plastic wonton soup container I’d used to store my sugar in New York.

We both saw it at the same time, as we turned into our street. There was a cardboard panel in the window, nothing official:
à vendre
and a phone number. An apartment. For sale. On our very own street. I wouldn’t have to change my dry cleaner, my
boulangerie,
my fruit man, my pizzeria. I felt my salivary glands go into overdrive. I leaned forward like a jungle cat ready to pounce.

And then I saw him, out of the corner of my eye. A man across the street, twenty yards up, cell phone cocked, also staring
up at the window.

I’ve looked for an apartment in New York, so I know what it is to act fast—to shove your rival to the pavement and offer up
cash, drugs, duck à l’orange, and your firstborn child all for a studio on East 62nd Street.

Although I stopped dating before whole relationships were conducted by text message, I can be a dial demon when I need to
be. The phone rang.
Oui, allo.
I looked at the guy up the street. He put his phone back in his pocket and walked on. No doubt he was going to do something
foolish, like
call back later,
by which time if there was anything up there worth having, it would be mine.

The phone was answered by Natacha. Yes, she was in the apartment. Sure, we could come right up. We climbed one flight, noting
the paint flaking in the hallway and the smell of fried fish
hanging in the air. Natacha met us at the door in tight black pants and stilettos utterly unsuited to climbing the spiral
staircases of Paris. Her hair was streaked blond like a lion’s mane, escaping in wisps from behind her huge sunglasses.

The entry was dark. “Welcome, we just finished the renovations,” she said, flipping on the lights. This was already a good
sign. Apartments in Paris are sold by the square meter, and whether the thing has recently been burned out in a fire or has
brand-new granite countertops makes very little difference in the price.

There was a small bar that separated us from the empty kitchen. I leaned on it with my elbow and my shirt stuck to the wood.
The varnish wasn’t even dry. There was no refrigerator, no oven, no stove. I long ago stopped looking for the washing machine.
In Paris, most apartments, even rentals, come with no appliances. These are bought and lugged around (and I thought my books
were a pain to move) or given as unsexy but very practical wedding gifts. Beyond the bar was the living room: shiny hardwood
floors and a cast-iron fireplace that resembled a taller, flatter version of a potbellied stove. Above it was a tiny marble
mantel, dusky pink veined with gray. The room was flooded with the early afternoon light. It was everything I imagined a Parisian
apartment to be: intimate and a little bit eccentric around the edges. Natacha pointed toward the bedroom door. A real door,
with a handle and everything. I peeked in. It was small but gleaming white, with a recess just begging for bookshelves. And
what was that over in the corner? Wonder of wonders, a
dressing
—that’s French for “hot diggety dog, a closet!”

There were also, my mother noted with emphasis, radiators.

I dialed Gwendal and told him to extend his lunch hour and come right over. Fifteen minutes later we were down to business.
The apartment was at the tippy-top end of our price range. Was there anything, I said, mentally placing my dog-eared copy
of
Paradise Lost
on the soon-to-be-built bookshelves, that she could do?


Bien,
” said Natacha, seeing in our eyes an early finish to her day’s work and a long vodka tonic. “I can knock the price down ten
thousand euros if you can pay ten percent in cash.” I looked at my mother; she had on her “I found a Prada gown at Marshalls”
face. Gwendal looked panic-stricken. I gave him my best “stick with me, kid” smile.

“Take the sign out of the window,” I said. “Sold.”

We arranged for the signing, which is split into two parts—the
promesse de vente
(sealing the offer) and three months later the
signature
(exchanging the title). Suspecting that Natacha worked for a muscled and mustached man named Boris, we negotiated to deliver
the cash in two parts.

Gwendal was in shock. Had we really just made the decision to be homeowners in less time than it takes to finish a beer? My
mother and Paul were over at the bar, scribbling numbers on the back of an envelope.

Gwendal was about to be introduced to a unique and quite possibly earth-shattering new theory: Bard Economics.

Bard Economics has two central principles:

1. Money not spent on item A is money saved, thus making item B half price.

2. You regret only the things you
didn’t
buy.

Money in my family has always been a fairly abstract concept. Usually, this kind of abstraction applies only to very wealthy
people, like the saying “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” That wasn’t precisely our case. More like, “Why ask, we
can’t afford it anyway.” My auntie Lynn calls my mother “the richest poor person I ever met.”

Paul, an accountant by training, still insists my mother must have done it with mirrors, multiplying the zeros at the end
of our
bank account like the fun house at the end of Orson Welles’s
Lady of Shanghai
. My mother spent her career at the New York City Board of Education, first as a special education teacher, then as an administrator.
How did she send a kid to college (home equity loan), the opera (she took lunch to work), and summer camp (she sold her first
engagement ring—it wasn’t the cut she wanted anyway), all while maintaining a home and a fabulous collection of vintage handbags.

Growing up, I never had my own money. When I worked during the summer the money went into “the kitty,” and when I wanted to
go to the movies with my friends or buy a new CD, I just took it out again. I guess I never did anything unreasonable, because
we somehow never got to the bottom of the kitty. I have a very distinct memory of the first time I used an ATM in high school.
It fit in very well with my airy-fairy understanding of finance. Money may not grow on trees, but it
does
come out of brick walls.

Gwendal couldn’t quite fathom all this. Debt, it turns out, is not universal. As hard as this is for Americans to believe,
most of the world does not live life off of borrowed money. Most French people do not possess a credit card as we know it.
Nicole and Yanig didn’t buy their first home until Gwendal was eighteen. I know that being a psychoanalyst conjures visions
of a comfortable Manhattan apartment with lots of potted plants, but there is no such thing as a $300-per-hour shrink in France.
Yanig was away on the boat for weeks, and there were many times when things came up short at the end of the month. Gwendal
took money out of the bank the same way he added pasta to boiling water, one small handful at a time.

There’s a Billy Wilder movie from the 1960s called
One, Two, Three
. James Cagney plays the regional manager of Coca-Cola in postwar Berlin. His mission is to bring America’s greatest
beverage behind the Iron Curtain. One day, the boss’s daughter arrives from Atlanta, falls for a Communist, and gets pregnant
in the bargain. James Cagney has twenty-four hours to get them married and to transform the new son-in-law into a respectable
capitalist. As they’re driving to the airport to meet Big Daddy, Cagney adds up the tab for his protégé—new suit, aristocratic
title, fancy car.

“Total: Ten thousand two hundred and fifty-five dollars.”

“You mean, I have been a capitalist for three hours and already I owe ten thousand dollars?”

“That’s what makes our system work. Everybody owes everybody.”

All this to say that my future husband had never seen anyone take fifteen thousand euros out of a cash machine.

M
Y PARENTS CAUGHT
their plane to New York the morning we signed the
promesse de vente
. We had carefully hidden the cash all week in Gwendal’s two-volume copy of
Maus
. I didn’t quite know what to do with the envelope on the way over. Just putting it in my purse seemed like an invitation
for trouble, so I stuffed it into my bra. Seven thousand euros looks like less money than it is. One cup size at best.

My Jewish mother said Hail Marys all the way to the airport. They wouldn’t know until they landed in New York that “Boris”
was in fact a balding middle-aged Frenchman from the staid 16th arrondissement. He had polished loafers, a respectable linen
blazer, and, of all things, an American wife. I bet the
dressing
was her idea.

A Meal to Warm Everybody Up
WILD MUSHROOM TURNOVERS
Chaussons aux Champignons

1 pound cremini mushrooms

½ pound mixed wild mushrooms (I use chanterelles and black trumpets)

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons butter

1 large clove garlic, sliced

1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (or a handful of flat-leaf parsley)

2 tablespoons Armagnac or Cognac

2 tablespoons crème fraîche or heavy cream

One 17¼-ounce package frozen puff pastry (2 sheets), thawed

½ teaspoon coarse sea salt, or more to taste

A good grinding of fresh pepper

Preheat the oven to 400ºF.

Clean the mushrooms by wiping them with a damp paper towel rather than running them under the tap; the less extra water they
absorb, the better. Slice them.

Heat the oil, butter, and garlic in a large frying pan. Add the cremini mushrooms and sauté over medium heat for 5 minutes,
until they start to release a bit of water. Add the wild mushrooms and thyme and cook another 5 minutes, until they’re wilted.

Deglaze the pan with Armagnac. Lower the heat, add the
crème fraîche,
and simmer for a minute or two. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Roll out the puff pastry rectangles to half their original thickness; cut them into 4½-inch squares. Place the pastry on a
baking sheet covered with parchment paper. Leaving a ½-inch border, place a tablespoon of the mushroom mixture in the lower
right-hand corner of the square. Fold the upper left-hand corner over the top and press the ends together with a fork to seal.
You should have a nice stuffed triangle. Repeat with the remaining pastry and mushrooms. Bake at 400ºF for 20 to 25 minutes,
until the pastry is puffed and golden brown.

Serve with drinks.

Yield: Serves 6–8 as an hors d’oeuvre

LAMB SHANKS WITH ORANGE AND STAR ANISE
Souris d’Agneau à l’Orange et à la Badiane

Unless I’m dealing with a tried-and-true vegetarian, this is probably what you’ll have for dinner the first time you are invited
to my home. This recipe was inspired by
Un Rôti pour Dimanche
by Emmanuel Renault (Larousse, 2007). The combination of orange and star anise fills the kitchen with a spicy gingerbread
scent, so you are almost guaranteed to hear, “Wow, something smells good” as your guests walk in the door. If you’ve never
tried making lamb shanks, please do. They are inexpensive, easy to serve, and very forgiving with timing. So if your in-laws
(or whomever else you are trying to impress) are caught in traffic, you can just turn off the oven and let them sit, no harm
done.

6 meaty lamb shanks

Coarse sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1–2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium red onion, diced

1 head garlic, cloves peeled and left whole

3 whole star anise

1 organic navel orange, cut into 6 sections

1 teaspoon sugar

1 cup best-quality tomato basil sauce

1 cup chicken broth

1 cup white wine

Preheat the oven to 350ºF.

In a large Dutch oven, brown the lamb shanks, seasoning generously with salt and pepper. Remove and set aside.

Add olive oil to the pot. Add the onion, garlic, star anise, and orange; sauté until the mixture is slightly colored, 3 to
5 minutes.

Add the liquids and sugar; bring to a boil. Add the meat back to the pot. Cover tightly and transfer to the oven. Cook for
1½ to 2 hours, until the lamb is tender and the sauce is slightly reduced. If anyone is running late, just shut off the oven
and leave the shanks to rest. (They should rest for 10 to15 minutes out of the oven in any case.)

To serve, transfer the shanks to a large shallow casserole dish. Surround them with boiled new potatoes and pour the sauce
over everything. Top with the cooked orange sections, cloves of garlic, and star anise.

Yield: Serves 6

CHOCOLATE PROFITEROLES
Profiteroles

This is a warm and wonderful ending to a get-to-know-you meal. It is also relatively stress-free. You can make the choux puffs
a few hours in advance, and leave the chocolate sauce in its double boiler on the stove, ready for a quick reheating. For
easy assembly, make the little ice cream balls in advance and store them on a baking sheet or waxed paper in the freezer.

Choux Puffs

½ cup whole milk

½ cup water

8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, diced

1¼ teaspoons sugar

1 level teaspoon coarse sea salt, or 1 scant teaspoon fine sea salt (I know it seems like a lot, but I like to taste the salt here; I find
it’s a nice counterpoint to the chocolate)

1 cup flour

4 eggs (approximately 9 ounces)

3 tablespoons powdered sugar

Dark Chocolate Sauce

¾ cup milk

7 ounces dark chocolate (70 percent cacao; I use Valrhona or Green & Black’s), chopped

1–2 teaspoons rum, dessert wine, cognac, raspberry liqueur, or any other alcohol that catches your fancy (optional, but recommended)

2 pints vanilla ice cream

Preheat the oven to 425ºF.

For the choux puffs: In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, over low heat, combine the milk, water, butter, sugar, and salt. Bring
just to a boil. Turn off the heat and add the flour while stirring continuously, until the flour is incorporated and the dough
comes away from the sides of the pan. It will look like a lump of marzipan.

Quickly add 2 of the eggs and stir to incorporate.

Quickly incorporate the remaining 2 eggs; stir until smooth. The batter will be thick and sticky. It can be refrigerated for
up to a day.

Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper. Using 2 teaspoons, dole out heaping dollops of batter, widely spaced. You
should have about 24. (If you have space in your freezer, you can freeze the individual puffs at this point. I don’t recommend
freezing and thawing a big lump of batter.)

Bake 1 sheet at a time. Before you put them in the oven, sprinkle the puffs generously with powdered sugar.

If baking immediately: Bake for 12 minutes at 425ºF. Then turn down the heat to 400ºF, and bake for 10 to 12 minutes more
with the oven door slightly ajar (I stick a wooden spoon in the door to hold it open just a crack).

If baking straight from the fridge: 15 minutes at 425ºF, then 10 to 12 minutes at 400ºF with the door ajar.

If baking straight from the freezer: 15 minutes at 425ºF, then 12 minutes at 400ºF with the door ajar.

You’ll want to watch the puffs the first time you make them, as every oven is different. Grab one out of the oven to taste
(I always do). It should be fully puffed and highly colored; don’t worry if the sugar caramelizes on top or underneath.

The puffs can be made several hours in advance. Leave them on the wire rack, uncovered in a dry spot.

For the chocolate sauce: Gently heat the milk in the top of a double boiler, mix in chocolate, stir until thoroughly combined—the
sauce will be thick and glossy. Add alcohol and stir to combine. You can make this sauce before dinner and gently reheat it
in the double boiler just before serving. Add an extra dribble of milk to loosen it if necessary.

To serve, cut each puff horizontally, but not all the way through, like a little Pac-Man. Place a small scoop of vanilla ice
cream in the opening. I usually serve three puffs per person, but—as this is part of a dinner meant to inspire a feeling of
welcome and
abundance—who would protest if they were served a fourth? Like the waiter at the Le Picotin, I like to bring the chocolate
sauce to the table in a little pitcher or copper pot and let each guest serve according to his whim.

Yield: Makes about 24 profiteroles

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