“Arrivée et Départ” - Arrival & Departure

My father died on Friday, January 9. 

Maybe, I expected it. Probably, I did. 

When I told him we were moving to Paris to do this whole crazy thing, he was not excited. He said, “That's great for you. That’s not so great for us.” I get it, probably better than most. I’m not sure he ever really understood the depth of what I was doing, what Le Cordon Bleu really means to me, what this entire experience is. 

I haven’t even been gone for two weeks. Nine months is a long time. What else might happen while we’re gone, halfway around the world? Away from home. 

Katy and I were talking, and I said, “I’m here, right now. And I can grieve him where I am.” I’ve spent the last three years getting too good at grieving. So I will. I am. 

In some part, I cook because of my dad. He didn’t cook often, necessarily, but he was good at it. The man could smoke a rack of ribs. He taught me to hunt, how to break down a deer—and it’s my favorite part of the act of hunting. Breaking down the cuts of meat and thinking ahead about how I’ll cook them, the ways I’ll prep them, the types of sausage and other things I’ll create. 

I got to talk to him on FaceTime recently, and he reiterated that this last Christmas was the best he had in memory—he got to see his kids, his grandkids, and got a present he asked for: a frame with two pictures, one of Harrison and one of August, riding a beautiful cedar rocking horse he bought at an estate sale. He cried when he opened it. 

It dawned on me as I write this that I wasn’t able to show him a single thing I cooked. The morning he died, I made a rustic vegetable soup—I might have shared that with him, later in the day, when he would be awake. 

Before we left after Christmas, he said this: “When you get back, I want you to cook me a French meal. A real French meal. Deal?” I’m going to figure out a way to honor that promise after I’m back, after I’ve earned my toque. 

For now, Harrison has someone else to hold him until he and I get to meet back up. 

My dad meeting Harrison.

Alors. 

We arrived in Paris on December 30, 2025, jet lagged and hungry and maybe a little sick. We’ve been here for a week and a half. I’ve got a full week under my calot (that’s the hat each student wears when we cook). It’s hard, harder than I think I expected. At nearly forty, my body aches after a three hour practical in the kitchen—but man, is it fulfilling to plate a dish and put it in front of chef. 

Let’s talk about the food for a minute.

The first meal we had in Paris: Le Cafe du Commerce

It’s been around for over 100 years, situated neatly on Rue du Commerce. Inside is bright and airy, with a live tree growing in the center of the first floor dining room. There are three total floors, leading up to a skylight that livens up the space, bouncing off all the bright white tile mosaics and the plants growing everywhere. 

They situated us in a corner booth, ideal for Auggie who got a high chair—a rarity in France. 

While we both ordered champagne, we received chablis, and were too nervous, confused, and tired to try to fix it. (It was a perfectly fine chablis, anyway.) My first course was a special for the new year, foie gras de canard. I’m well aware of the ethics surrounding foie, and frankly I save my ethical dilemmas for other causes. Foie gras is delicious, one of my most favorite foods. Fatty, creamy, luxurious, and rich, it’s the perfect welcome to a 10-month stay in Paris—or any other visit, for that matter. The slab of foie was served with a relish of shallot, grape, and bell pepper. You wouldn’t think the sweetness of that would blend well with something so unctuous, but it brightened it right up and made it pop. 

Foie gras de canard

One of my prouder parenting achievements is the way my boys eat. Harrison ate nearly everything we put in front of him, as does August. Or rather, August doesn’t always want what’s put in front of him—he’d rather eat what’s put in front of us. Before we left, we had a tray of oysters at Commission Row in Indianapolis. Auggie kept toying with one, swiping his finger through it like it was some kind of ketchup that he could slurp. Katy scooped one onto a spoon and fed it to him. We expected it to slip right back out of his mouth, but it didn’t. He chewed, chewed more, and swallowed. He didn’t ask for another, and that’s ok. 

When he tried foie gras, though, he did ask for more. And more. And more. All told he ate five bites of it. 

Katy ordered braised leeks with a warm vinaigrette. They were good, the vinaigrette especially, but required a chainsaw to cut through.

For her main course, Katy had the beef tartare, which she claims she may eat almost exclusively while here in Paris. I get it. This one was good, rightly minced and flavored, but lacked salt. My plat was a skirt steak, medium, and cooked excellently but also lacking salt. It made us wonder if we, as Americans, have a more intense craving for salt. We’ll find out when my classes start, if my chefs constantly chide me for trop de sel. 

Dessert was a bit inexplicably a rice pudding. Katy loves it, and Auggie certainly liked the caramel drizzled on top. 

All in all, a perfectly fine meal, and one that we then walked off with a little trip to the Eiffel Tower, lit up at night and with virtually no crowds in the Champs de Mars. 

An easy 15 minute stroll from our apartment.

The first meal I made in Paris: Chicken piccata 

We ate that meal described above at 4pm, partly because it was the only reservation we could get and partly because what time is it anyway? We have yet to adjust to the French dining schedule. I wonder if Auggie will at all. Most restaurants close after 3pm and open again at 7pm. As parents of toddlers, we’re eating dinner at 5:30 or 6pm, so help us god, and that extra hour feels daunting. Especially when Auggie is in bed by 8 and asleep by 8:30. 

A lovely day at the Tuileries Gardens.

This was particularly true when we came home from a day out at several different parks and a shop for home necessities and niceties at two (2) different stores. When we got back, I said, “I’ll start dinner.” Katy said, “Let’s just go down to the Lebanese place on the corner.” But upon checking their hours, we weren’t ready for a one-and-a-half hour wait. So I said again, “I’ll start dinner.” Hence: chicken piccata. 

The chicken looks different here. It smells different. It cooks differently. It’s more red and also more flavorful. And smaller. And packages come with two breasts—not, what, a dozen? Which works out, because there is only a very small sliver of a freezer in our apartment. 

It wasn’t a real piccata. That requires a lemon, which I did not purchase and was not going to run out for again on New Year’s Day. It also typically calls for cream which, again, see prior sentence, but we had milk because Auggie drinks it. I added mushrooms and garlic. I had no flour to dredge the chicken breasts in so just pan fried them with salt and pepper in butter and oil. I served it over rice. 

It was delicious. 

There’s more to come—including a lot more food. More about my first week at LCB. Expect that sometime in the middle of next week. In the meantime, thanks for reading. It means everything.