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Mireille Guiliano

French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure Paperback – Illustrated, December 26, 2007

by Mireille Guiliano (Author)

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#1 NATIONAL BESTSELLER • The book that launched a French Revolution about how to approach healthy living: the ultimate non-diet book—now with more recipes.

“The perfect book.... A blueprint for building a healthy attitude toward food and exercise"—San Francisco Chronicle

French women don’t get fat, even though they enjoy bread and pastry, wine, and regular three-course meals. Unlocking the simple secrets of this “French paradox”—how they enjoy food while staying slim and healthy—Mireille Guiliano gives us a charming, inspiring take on health and eating for our times. For anyone who has slipped out of her Zone, missed the flight to South Beach, or accidentally let a carb pass her lips, here is a positive way to stay trim, a culture’s most precious secrets recast for the twenty-first century. A life of wine, bread—even chocolate—without girth or guilt? Pourquoi pas?

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304 pages
Language

English
Publisher

Vintage
Publication date

December 26, 2007
Dimensions

5.17 x 0.61 x 8 inches
ISBN-10

0375710515
ISBN-13

978-0375710513
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Editorial Reviews

Review

“The perfect book.... A blueprint for building a healthy attitude toward food and exercise.” —San Francisco Chronicle

“A perfect, slim (and slimming) read for dieters and bon vivants alike.” —Marie Claire

“It’s hard not to be enlivened by a [weight-control] book that celebrates both chocolate and bread, and espouses such wisdom as ‘Life without pasta? Perish the thought.’” —The Washington Post Book World

From the Back Cover

Stylish, convincing, wise, funny-and just in time: the ultimate "non-diet book, which could radically change the way you think and live.
French women don't get fat, but they do eat bread and pastry, drink wine, and regularly enjoy three-course meals. In her delightful tale, Mireille Guiliano unlocks the simple secrets of this "French paradox"-how to enjoy food and stay slim and healthy. Hers is a charming, sensible, and powerfully life-affirming view of health and eating for our times.
As a typically slender French girl, Mireille (Meer-"ray) went to America as an exchange student and came back fat. That shock sent her into an adolescent tailspin, until her kindly family physician, "Dr. Miracle," came to the rescue. Reintroducing her to classic principles of French gastronomy plus time-honored secrets of the local women, he helped her restore her shape and gave her a whole new understanding of food, drink, and life. The key? Not guilt or deprivation but learning to get the most from the things you most enjoy. Following her own version of this traditional wisdom, she has ever since relished a life of indulgence without bulge, satisfying yen without yo-yo on three meals a day.
Now in simple but potent strategies and dozens of recipes you'd swear were fattening, Mireille reveals the ingredients for a lifetime of weight control-from the emergency weekend remedy of Magical Leek Soup to everyday tricks like fooling yourself into contentment and painless new physical exertions to save you from the StairMaster. Emphasizing the virtues of freshness, variety, balance, and "always pleasure, Mireille shows how virtually anyone can learn to eat, drink, and move like a French woman.
Anatural raconteur, Mireille illustrates her philosophy through the experiences that have shaped her life-a six-year-old's first taste of Champagne, treks in search of tiny blueberries (called "myrtilles) in the woods near her grandmother's house, a near-spiritual rendezvous with oysters at a seaside restaurant in Brittany, to name but a few. She also shows us other women discovering the wonders of "French in action," drawing examples from dozens of friends and associates she has advised over the years to eat and drink smarter and more joyfully.
Here are a culture's most cherished and time-honored secrets recast for the twenty-first century. For anyone who has slipped out of her zone, missed the flight to South Beach, or accidentally let a carb pass her lips, here is a buoyant, positive way to stay trim. A life of wine, bread-even chocolate-without girth or guilt? "Pourquoi pas?

About the Author

MIREILLE GUILIANO, born and brought up in France, is an internationally best-selling author and a long-time spokesperson for Champagne Veuve Clicquot. For more than twenty years she was President and CEO of Clicquot, Inc. (LVMH). She is married to an American and lives most of the year in New York and France (Paris and Provence). Her favorite pastimes are breakfast, lunch and dinner. Her books have appeared in 37 languages.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

VIVE L’AMÉRIQUE:

THE BEGINNING . . . I AM OVERWEIGHT

I love my adopted homeland. But first, as an exchange student in Massachusetts, I learned to love chocolate-chip cookies and brownies. And I gained twenty pounds.

My love affair with America had begun with my love of the English language; we met at the lycée (junior high and high school) when I turned eleven. English was my favorite class after French literature, and I simply adored my English teacher. He had never been abroad but spoke English without a French accent or even a British one. He had learned it during World War II, when he found himself in a POW camp with a high school teacher from Weston, Massachusetts (I suspect they had long hours to practice). Without knowing whether they’d make it out alive, they decided that if they did, they would start an exchange program for high school seniors. Each year, one student from the United States would come to our town and one of us would go to Weston. The exchange continues to this day, and the competition is keen.

During my last year at the lycée, I had good enough grades to apply, but I wasn’t interested. With dreams of becoming an English teacher or professor, I was eager to start undergraduate studies at the local university. And at eighteen, naturally I had also convinced myself I was madly in love with a boy in my town. He was the handsomest though admittedly not the brightest boy around, the coqueluche (the darling) of all the girls. I couldn’t dream of parting from him, so I didn’t even think of applying for Weston. But in the schoolyard, between classes, there was hardly another topic of conversation. Among my friends, the odds-on favorite to go was Monique; she wanted it so badly, and besides, she was the best in our class, a fact not lost on the selection committee, which was chaired by my English teacher and included among its distinguished ranks PTA members, other teachers, the mayor, and the local Catholic priest, balanced by the Protestant minister. But on the Monday morning when the announcement was expected, the only thing announced was that no decision had been made.

At home that Thursday morning (those days, there was no school on Thursdays but half days on Saturday), my English teacher appeared at the door. He had come to see my mother, which seemed rather strange, considering my good grades. As soon as he left, with a big, satisfied smile but not a word to me except hello, my mother called me. Something was très important.

The selection committee had not found a suitable candidate. When I asked about Monique, my mother tried to explain something not easily fathomed at my age: My friend had everything going for her, but her parents were Communists, and that would not fly in America. The committee had debated at great length (it was a small town, where everybody was fully informed about everybody else), but they could not escape concluding that a daughter of Communists could never represent France!

My teacher had proposed me as an alternative, and the other members had agreed. But since I had not even applied, he had to come and persuade my parents to let me go. My overadoring father, who would never have condoned my running away for a year, was not home. Perhaps my teacher was counting on this fact; but in any event, he managed to sell the idea to my mother. The real work then fell to her, because she had to persuade not only my father, but me as well. Not that she was without her own misgivings about seeing me go, but Mamie was always wise and farsighted; and she usually got her way. I was terribly anxious about what Monique would say, but once word got out, she was first to declare what a fine ambassador I would make. Apparently, Communist families were quite open and practical about such matters, and she had already been given to understand that family ideology had made her a dark horse from the start.

And so I went. It was a wonderful year—one of the best of my adolescence—and it certainly changed the course of my entire life. To a young French girl, Weston, a wealthy Boston suburb, seemed an American dream—green, manicured, spread out, with huge gorgeous homes and well-to-do, well-schooled families. There was tennis, horseback riding, swimming pools, golf, and two or three cars per family—a far, far cry from any town in eastern France, then or now. The time was so full of new, unimagined things, but finally too rich, and I don’t mean demographically. For all the priceless new friends and experiences I was embracing, something else altogether, something sinister, was slowly taking shape. Almost before I could notice, it had turned into fifteen pounds, more or less . . . and quite probably more. It was August, my last month before the return voyage to France. I was in Nantucket with one of my adoptive families when I suffered the first blow: I caught a reflection of myself in a bathing suit. My American mother, who had perhaps been through something like this before with another daughter, instinctively registered my distress. A good seamstress, she bought a bolt of the most lovely linen and made me a summer shift. It seemed to solve the problem but really only bought me a little time.

In my final American weeks, I had become very sad at the thought of leaving all my new pals and relations, but I was also quite apprehensive of what my French friends and family would say at the sight of the new me. I had never mentioned the weight gain in letters and somehow managed to send photos showing me only from the waist up.

The moment of truth was approaching.

2

LA FILLE PRODIGUE:

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

My father brought my brother with him to Le Havre to collect me. I was traveling on the SS Rotterdam. The ocean liner was still the transatlantic standard preferred by many French people in the late 1960s. With me was the new American exchange student from Weston, who would be spending the year in our town.

Since he had not seen me for a whole year, I expected my father, who always wore his heart on his face, would embarrass me, bounding up the gangway for the first hug and kiss. But when I spied the diminutive French man in his familiar beret—yes, a beret—he looked stunned. As I approached, now a little hesitantly, he just stared at me, and as we came near, after a few seconds that seemed endless, there in front of my brother and my American shipmate, all he could manage to say to his cherished little girl come home was, “Tu ressembles à un sac de patates” (“You look like a sack of potatoes”). Some things don’t sound any prettier in French. I knew what he had in mind: not a market-size sack, but one of the big, 150-pound burlap affairs that are delivered to grocery stores and restaurants! Fortunately the girl from Weston spoke little French, else she would have had a troubling first impression of French family life.

At age nineteen, I could not have imagined anything more hurtful, and to this day the sting has not been topped. But my father was not being mean. True, tact was never his strength; and the teenage girl’s hypersensitivity about weight and looks wasn’t yet the proverbial pothole every parent today knows to steer around. The devastating welcome sprang more than anything from his having been caught off guard. Still, it was more than I could take. I was at once sad, furious, vexed, and helpless. At the time, I could not even measure the impact.

On our way home to eastern France, we stopped in Paris for a few days, just to show my friend from Weston the City of Light, but my inexorable grumpiness made everyone eager to hit the road again. I ruined Paris for all of us. I was a mess.

The coming months were bitter and awkward. I didn’t want anyone to see me, but everyone wanted to greet l’Américaine. My mother understood right away not only how and why I had gained the weight, but also how I felt. She treaded lightly, avoiding the unavoidable topic, perhaps particularly because I had soon given her something more dire to worry about.

Having seen a bit of the world, I had lost my taste for attending the local university. I now wanted to study languages in a Grande École (like an Ivy League school) in Paris and, on top of that, to take a literary track at the Sorbonne at the same time. It was unusual and really an insane workload. My parents were not at all keen on the idea of Paris: if I got in (hardly a given, as the competition is legendary), it was going to be a big emotional and financial sacrifice to have me three and a half hours from home. So I had to campaign hard, but thanks in part to the obvious persistence of my raw nerves, in the end they let me go back to Paris for the famously grueling entrance exam. I passed, and in late September I moved to Paris. My parents always wanted the best for me.

By All Saints’ Day (November 1), I had gained another five pounds, and by Christmas, five more still. At five feet three, I was now overweight by any standard, and nothing I owned fit, not even my American mother’s summer shift. I had two flannel ones—same design, but roomier—made to cover up my lumpiness. I told the dressmaker to hurry and hated myself every minute of the day. More and more, my father’s faux pas at Le Havre seemed justified. Those were blurry days of crying myself to sleep and zipping past all mirrors. It may not seem so strange an experience for a nineteen-year-old, but none of my French girlfriends was going through it.

Then something of a Yuletide miracle occurred. Or perhaps I should say, Dr. Miracle, who showed up thanks to my mamie. Over the long holiday break, she asked the family physician, Dr. Meyer, to pay a call. She did this most discreetly, careful not to bruise me further. Dr. Meyer had watched me grow up, and he was the kindest gentleman on earth. He assured me that getting back in shape would be really easy and just a matter of a few “old French tricks.” By Easter, he promised, I’d be almost back to my old self, and certainly by the end of the school year in June I’d be ready to wear my old bathing suit, the one I’d packed for America. As in a fairy tale, it was going to be our secret. (No use boring anyone else with the particulars of our plan, he said.) And the weight would go away much faster than it came. Sounded great to me. Of course, I wanted to put my faith in Dr. Meyer, and fortunately, there didn’t seem to be many options at the time.

DR. MIRACLE’S WEEKEND PRESCRIPTION

For the next three weeks, I was to keep a diary of everything I ate. This is a strategy that will sound familiar from some American diet programs, such as Weight Watchers. I was to record not only what and how much, but also when and where. There was no calorie counting, not that I could have done that. The stated purpose was simply for him to gauge the nutritional value of what I was eating (it was the first time I ever heard the word). Since nothing more was asked of me, I was only too happy to comply. This is the first thing you should do, too.

Dr. Meyer demanded no great precision in measurement. Just estimate, he said, stipulating “a portion” as the only unit of quantity and roughly equal to a medium-size apple. In America, where the greatest enemy of balanced eating is ever bigger portions, I suggest a little more precision. Here’s where the small kitchen scale comes in. (Bread, which sometimes comes in huge slices here, might be more easily weighed than compared with an apple, which seems bigger here, too!)

Three weeks later, I was home again for the weekend. Just before noon, Dr. Miracle, distingué, gray templed, made his second house call. He also stayed for lunch. Afterward, reviewing my diary, he immediately identified a pattern utterly obvious to him but hiding somehow from me, as I blithely recorded every crumb I put in my mouth. On the walk between school and the room I was renting in the Seventh Arrondissement, there were no fewer than sixteen pastry shops. Without my having much noticed, my meals were more and more revolving around pastry. As I was living in Paris, my family could not know this, so when I came home, my mother naturally prepared my favorites, unaware I was eating extra desserts on the sly, even under her roof.

My Parisian pastry gluttony was wonderfully diverse. In the morning there was croissant or pain au chocolat or chouquette or tarte au sucre. Lunch was preceded by a stop at Poîlane, the famous breadmaker’s shop, where I could not resist the pain aux raisins or tarte aux pommes (apple tart) or petits sablés. Next stop was at a café for the ubiquitous jambon-beurre (ham on a buttered baguette) and what remained of the Poîlane pastry with coffee. Dinner always included and sometimes simply was an éclair, Paris Brest, religieuse, or mille-feuille (curiously called a napoleon outside France), always some form of creamy, buttery sweetness. Sometimes I would even stop off for a palmier (a big puff pastry sugar-covered cookie) for my goûter (afternoon snack). As a student, I was living off things I could eat on the go. Hardly any greens were passing my lips, and my daily serving of fruit was coming from fruit tarts. I was eating this strangely lopsided fare without the slightest thought and with utter contentment—except, of course, for how I looked.

Now this was obviously not a diet I had picked up in America, where one could hardly say the streets are lined with irresistible patisseries (though then, as now, there was no shortage of tempting hot chocolate-chip cookie stands and sellers of rich ice cream, to say nothing of a mind-boggling variety of supermarket sweets made with things infinitely worse for you than cream and butter). But as I was to learn, it was my adoptive American way of eating that had gone to my head and opened me up to the dangers of this delicious Parisian minefield. For in America, I had gotten into some habits: eating standing up, not making my own food, living off whatever (n’importe quoi, as the French say), as other kids were doing. Brownies and bagels were particular hazards; we had nothing quite like them at home, so who could tell how rich they were?

Product details

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Vintage; Reprint edition (December 26, 2007)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 304 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0375710515
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0375710513
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 10.1 ounces
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.17 x 0.61 x 8 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #22,215 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #16 in French Cooking, Food & Wine
- #159 in Weight Loss Diets (Books)
- #251 in Other Diet Books

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Mireille Guiliano

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Mireille Guiliano is the bestselling author of French Women Don't Get Fat and French Women For All Seasons. Born and raised in France, she is married to an American and lives most of the year in New York and Paris. She is the former President and CEO of Clicquot, Inc.

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British Mark

Merci Madame Guiliano for writing this book ...

Reviewed in the United States on June 21, 2005

Verified Purchase

Woooo ... this book really has rallied a love-it-or-hate-it sensibility here. Well, count me in the love-it group. And why? Because for me it struck a chord ... and it works. 10 weeks ago, I embarked on a new way of eating ... I was 212 pounds (at 6 foot tall with a medium frame that's a bit overweight for a guy) ... and today I was weighed at my Doctor's office - 191 pounds! That's 21 pounds! I.e. I've lost 2 pounds per week on average - what Doctors consider a "safe" amount to lose. My ideal weight is about 180 pounds ... so only 11 more to go! My Doctor was almost as excited as I was and wanted to know how I did it. When I told her about this book, she said she'd heard about it and needed to get a copy for her husband, a cardiologist!

Yes, Madame Guiliano is not a medical professional. Yes, she is the CEO of Veuve Cliquot. Maybe you take offence at her generalizations - I don't. I feel that she talks about her observations with style and humor and yes, perhaps some of them maybe stretching things a bit, but they are her beliefs. Hello? This is not some scientific paper that is going to be vetted by professionals. It's a story, a way of looking at things, a lifestyle change ... an encouragement to using a little willpower in your life.

Some people have criticized certain aspects of the book such as the shopping from markets or walk everywhere, but my take is ... get inspired by the book, make changes in your life and take from it what you can. I never tried the Miracle soup, I still shop at Safeway, I still drive everywhere ... but I'm mindful of what I eat without going overboard ... I cycle a little bit now and then (20 mins or so per week) ... and I eat delicious food. I also never weighed myself over the 10 weeks (I was afraid of getting discouraged) ... I just started noticing that I needed to take my belt in further and that I was looking better in the mirror. Despite the "you're looking better" comments from friends, proof-positive was today at the Doctor's office.

Note that I eat some of the bad stuff too, but in moderation ... as a treat ... not as a way of life (like before). I still have takeout chinese food, I still eat burgers, but now I make the chinese food last for more than one sitting and I eat only half the burger. Salad has become a steady side dish in my life. (Big note here: salad can make you fat too ... don't pile it on at the cafeteria and then slather it with 300 calories of dressing! Hello?) This book has changed the way I look at portions here in America - they're (quite frankly) obscene. What to do? Doggy bag it! Saves time and money too!

If I overindulge once in a while, I do as Madame Guiliano says ... I cut back on my next meal. Maybe just a small (and I mean small!) ham-and-brie toasted sandwich with some fresh basil and tomato instead of a big meal. And no more eating food that I don't like - I was in a restaurant once, had ordered a chicken sandwich, didn't care for it, so I left it! Why eat food that doesn't bring you pleasure? I love food. I love to cook. I still use butter, I still use cream ... but I use them sensibly. I also drink one glass (1/4 bottle) of red wine per night. At weekends I might indulge in a glass or two more or maybe a cocktail.

For me, this book worked - it was just the encouragement I needed to do something about my weight. I don't care for the "you must eat this, you must eat that and in these portions". I like what I like to eat - I don't want to learn to love what someone else eats (though I did incorporate more fresh veg and fruit in my diet). I also don't care for the "it's not your fault" books. I'm an adult ... I know I goof up sometimes ... and I know that the only person who will look after my weight is me. My responsibility. The buck stops here. All-in-all it was a little tough at first, but after a few weeks, it became second nature. Now, I don't have to think about it - food and watching what/when/how you eat doesn't run my life like I expected a "diet" to. It's not a diet - it's a lifestyle ... and in the words of one fast food chain ... "I'm Lovin' It" (ha!)

Sorry if I've rattled on a bit here. I hope I haven't come off as a snob or something. I just wanted to tell my story and encourage others. Eat well (but sensibly) and enjoy food, life and living!

Madame Guiliano ... I'd like to say a very public "merci" for your style, wit, humor and, of course, the time you took to write this book.

Hey, and your champagne is not too shabby either! À votre santé!

*** Update on 4 Oct 2005:

Well, I reached my target weight of 180 pounds a few months ago, and despite going on vacation, I have managed to maintain my "ideal" weight.

I still have a glass of wine per night and indulge a little more at weekends, and I still adhere to the basic principles in the book, just not as rigorously as before. However, if I pig out one day, I make up for it the next ... everything in balance.

Just read an article on MSN that "Vast majority of Americans likely to become fat" ... yikes. This is a shocking thought. I absolutely do not intend to become another sad statistic in our nation's health epidemic.

I bought a good quality digital scale and I weigh myself every morning when I get up. I fluctuate between 177 and 183 pounds and don't freak out if I'm somewhere in that range. If I start heading upwards of 183, I put the brakes on again.

Losing the weight has been a big inspiration in my life. I realize that if I can lose weight, I have the ability to change many other things in my life ... which is what I am currently doing. I am questioning my job, the time I spend, my reltionships and where I live. It's scary and exciting at the same time.

On a last note, I sincerely would like to encourage anyone that, yes, this can be done. Have fun, be flexible and enjoy life. No one's gonna hand it on a plate to you (well except a waiter <grin>) so get off your b*** and go for it!

Cheers!

218 people found this helpful

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A. Din

Excellent and Useful Book!

Reviewed in the United States on December 14, 2009

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I actually read this book a while back and after falling off the eating wagon a bit, I reread it again recently. Oddly enough I gleaned a lot more from this book the second time around, possibly because I was able to overlook the author's slightly condescending nature this time. I also managed to avoid her 3 page list on what French women are and what American women are lacking because honestly? I don't need her to tell me that when my brother/mother/husband would be happy to tell me what I'm lacking any day of the week.

The author is Mireille Guliano, President and CEO of the champagne company Cliquot Inc. She is not a doctor or a nutritionist, but rather, a person who learned through her own experiences how different Americans and French view food. After a stint in America as an exchange student, she returned home to France needing to rethink her newly acquired eating habits. With the help of a doctor - who she refers to throughout the book as Dr. Miracle - the author is able to return to her normal size and kick all her bad habits to the curve.

She talks about:

French women eat at regular mealtimes, never standing up, never in the car, never in front of the TV or with a book. They sit with proper utensils and a place setting.
French women eat real foods in moderation. This means butter instead of margarine, full fat milk instead of skim, sugar instead of Splenda. They eat smaller amounts but more variety.
They eat what is in season to ensure maximum flavor. i.e. just because Trader Joe's carries strawberries in February doesn't mean they will be flavorful.
They don't feel guilty about food the way Americans do because they believe in indulging on occasion but cutting back slightly the next day to make up for it.
They drink water and walk all day long.
No gyms, no 30 Day Shred DVD's, no spin classes.
French women eat chocolate and drink wine.
Obviously a lot of what the author talks about is common sense. We shouldn't be eating chemically altered food. We should be cooking more at home. We should be drinking more water and walking more.

What I learned:

Our meals should be filling enough that we can go a few hours without a snack. I used to eat just a small breakfast and be starving for a snack an hour later. Now, I eat something filling enough to get me to lunch.
We shouldn't be exercising so we can eat more. This was a tough one for me as I would be in the gym at 5 am every day running like a crazy person so that I justified eating an extra cookie or 5.
Her ideas about recasting did wonders for my sugar habit! While I didn't make her famous (infamous?) leek soup, I did go 2 weeks with no sugar and suddenly I just don't crave it anymore. I was "recast" I guess. Whereas I used to need a ton of brownies to feel satisfied, now I just need a bite or two and I'm done. I can't remember the last time I had a brownie!
This book contains lots of recipes and while I've only made a few of the easier ones, I was inspired to start making a lot of my own food. Now I actually prefer to do so because I can control the portion size, the oil, the salt, and the sugar content. She also introduced a lot of foods I hadn't really thought of trying before and I now regularly consume.
This book isn't just about what to eat or not eat, it is also about how to savor life by eating with friends instead of in front of the TV. How to enjoy food, especially good quality. She discusses eating 3 course dinners (small portions of course) unhurriedly. This is something I was never able to do and I feel like I am slowly getting better at this.

What I Didn't Like

As I mentioned before, the author has a tendency to sound smug. I love France just as much, if not more, than the next person but I don't think the French are better in every regard. Besides, I often wondered why she settled in New York if she believes France is THAT much better.
As a vegetarian I found it a bit difficult to utilize a lot of her recipes/menus. It is much easier to eat meat and feel full but feeling full with vegetables can be challenging.
As far as I know she has no children and apparently her husband isn't picky which makes eating the French way about 100 times easier for her. Maya is fairly adventurous and will try most anything, but what child will eat Red Mullet with Spinach en Papillote without putting up a fight?
The author obviously has money. Can most people really afford to buy a $15 piece of wild salmon for dinner? Especially not these days, in this economy.
I disagree that the gym or some type of formal exercise is not necessary. Yes I agree that we shouldn't be spending an extra 10 minutes on the stationary bike so we can eat a vat of fries, but in my opinion a regular person needs to be active for at least 45 minutes a day for their overall health and mental well-being, not specifically just for weight maintenance/loss.
Summary

This book is a quick, easy read, and is interesting - even if you aren't trying to lose weight. The breezy nature of the book, the anecdotes of the author's childhood, and the delicious sounding recipes make me recommend this book. It has that same old world charm that I associate with being in Paris and I am totally sold the things she emphasizes - luxury, quality, variety, freshness, and balance. And last but not least, anyone who can recommend dark chocolate as part of a healthy diet must be on to something.

Ameena Din
Freelance Reviewer
Fancy That...Fancy This
[...]

41 people found this helpful

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Stephen

FABULOUS BOOK

Reviewed in the United States on August 3, 2023

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NOT A DIET BOOK, IT'S A BOOK TO CHANGE THE WAY WE INTERACT WITH FOOD. GOING BACK TO THE BASICS

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Patricia M

Interesting book!

Reviewed in France on July 20, 2022

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The book is very interesting and I enjoyed the principles of eating and the recipes in the book.
However, the kindle version could have been edited properly.

I have found quite a few mistakes where the incorrect word was placed such as do instead of to etc- but my favourite was “You’11” in the description for the floating island recipe.

I am not expert in grammar but when it’s that bad it’s hard to miss and gets distracting.

Cliente de Amazon

Muy bueno

Reviewed in Mexico on June 26, 2018

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Un libro que nos permite echar un vistazo a la cultura francesa, muy interesante. Lleno de vivencias que nos hacen transportarnos hacia su infancia, y nos permiten entender su razonamiento. Nos hace reflexionar sobre los verdaderos placeres al comer, en lugar de hacerlo automáticamente, sin disfrutar. Muy buenos consejos, y para las personas que no entiendan las frases en francés, consulten el diccionario.
¡Me encantó!

One person found this helpful

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Thomas Weismann

A good book for the western world

Reviewed in India on April 1, 2020

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Most of the book is not scientific in terms of quote but may be true . Also, the recepies mentioned are for non vegetarians

Tegan D'Arcy

Reviving the Joy of Food & Eating

Reviewed in Australia on September 29, 2021

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I had been wanting to read this book for a while but was put off by some negative reviews. But I loved it!

The philosophy aligns with the way I have eaten in the past when I am happiest. I dislike the way food is often approached these days. Like cooking is a chore & food is just fuel, or at best medicine - and that can make things stressful & joyless - especially when trying to eat well.

But this book helps bring the joy & pleasure back to food and eating! While staying slim!

2 people found this helpful

S. Alex Percival

Tres utile

Reviewed in France on December 8, 2017

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Ce produit est exactement comme il était dit et j'étais heureux de l'avoir acheté. je n'ai pas de plaintes. c'est bon. très utile car il offre de si bonnes idées. J'ai changé beaucoup de mauvaises habitudes permenantly.

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French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure Paperback – Illustrated, December 26, 2007

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