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FRENCH WOMEN DON’T GET FAT by Mireille Guiliano
Copyright © 2005 by Mireille Guiliano
Published by Random House

OUVERTURE

Whatever the state of Franco-American relations—admittedly a bit frayed from time to time—we should not lose sight of the singular achievements of French civilization. Until now, I humbly submit, one glorious triumph has remained largely unacknowledged, yet it's a basic and familiar anthropological truth: French women don't get fat.

I am no physician, physiologist, psychologist, nutritionist, or any manner of "-ist" who helps or studies people professionally. I was, however, born and raised in France, and with two good eyes I've been observing the French for a lifetime. Plus, I eat a lot. One can find exceptions, as with any rule, but overwhelmingly, French women do as I do: they eat as they like and don't get fat. "Pourquoi?"

Over the past decade, we Americans have made valuable progress in understanding the French capacity for getting away with murder vis-a-vis food and drink. The cautious acknowledgment of a "French Paradox," for example, has sent countless heart patients and wellness enthusiasts sprinting to the wine store for bottles of red. But otherwise, the wisdom of the French way of eating and living, and in particular the uncanny power of French women to stay svelte, remains little understood, much less exploited. With myself as living proof, I have successfully counseled dozens of American women over the years, including some who have come to work for me at Clicquot, Inc., in New York City. I've also addressed thousands on aspects of this subject in talks. I've been teased by American friends and business associates: "When will you write zee book?"
Well, "le jour est arrive!"

Could it be Nature alone? Could the slow wheel of evolution have had time enough to create a discrete gene pool of slender women? "J'en doute." No, French women have a "system," their "trucs"—a collection of well-honed tricks. Though I was born into it, living happily as a child and even a teenager by what my "maman" taught me, at a moment in my adolescence the wheels came off. In America as an exchange student, I suffered a catastrophe that I was totally unprepared for: a twenty-pound catastrophe. It sent me into a wilderness from which I had to find my way back. Fortunately, I had help: a family physician whom I still call Dr. Miracle. He led me to rediscover my hereditary French gastronomic wisdom and to recover my former shape. (Yes, this is an American story, too, a parable of fall and redemption.)

I have now lived and worked in America most of my life. (I like to believe that I embody the best parts of being American and being French.) I moved here a few years after university and worked as a UN translator, then for the French government, promoting French food and wine. I married a wonderful American and eventually found my way to corporate life. In 1984, I took the leap that has let me live in two cultures ever since. The venerable Champagne House of Veuve Clicquot, founded in 1772, boldly opened a U.S. subsidiary to handle the importation and marketing of Champagne Veuve Clicquot and other fine wines. As the first employee, I immediately became the highest-ranking woman on staff since Madame Clicquot, who died in 1866. Today I am a CEO and director of Champagne Veuve Clicquot, part of the luxury-goods group LVMH.

All the while, I've continued to practice what most French women do without a second thought. And the dangers I have faced for years now are well above average. No exaggeration, my business requires me to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year (tough job, I know, but someone has to do it). I've been at it for twenty years, never without a glass of wine or Champagne at my side (business is business). These are full meals: no single course of frisee salad and sparkling water for me. Yet I repeat: I am not overweight or unhealthy. This book aims to explain how I do it and, more important, how you can, too. By learning and practicing the way French women traditionally think and act in relation to food and life, you too can do what might seem impossible. What's the secret? First, a word about what it's not.

So many of us do double duty, working harder inside and outside the home than most men will ever know. On top of it, we must find a way to stay healthy as we try to maintain an appearance that pleases us. But let's face it: more than half of us cannot maintain a stable, healthy weight even with all the self-inflicted deprivation we can muster. Sixty-five percent of Americans are overweight, and the fastest-selling books are diet books, most of them now written like biochemistry manuals. No matter how many appear, there are always ten more on the way. Could dietary technology really be progressing as fast as the marketing? Anyway, the demand persists. Why? Why don't the million-copy wonders put a definitive end to our woes? Simply put, unsustainable extremism.

Most diet books are based on radical programs. Apart from a brief Jacobin interlude in the eighteenth century, extremism has never been the French way. America, however, gravitates toward different philosophies, quick fixes, and extreme measures. In diet as in other matters, these work for a time, but they're no way to live. You're bound to slip out of your Zone, fall off your Pyramid, lose count of your calories. And why not? "C'est normal!" It doesn't help matters that one extreme prescription is often contradicted by the very next one to gain traction. Who doesn't remember the high-carb days? Or the grapefruit days? Now everything's fat and protein, and carbs are the devil; first dairy products are your worst enemy, then they are the only thing you can eat. Ditto wine, bran, red meat. The unstated principle seems to be, if you bore yourself to death with one kind of food group, eventually you'll lose interest in eating altogether and the pounds will come off. In some cases, they do. But what happens after you stop the radical program? You know what happens. For this reason, "attention!" Banish the diet book! You don't need an ideology or a technology, you need what French women have: a balanced and time-tested relation to food and life. Finally, the coup de grace against these extreme programs is their general lack of attention to the individuality of our metabolisms. Written mostly by men, they rarely acknowledge that the physiology of women is profoundly different. And a woman's metabolism changes over time: a woman of twenty-five with some weight to lose faces a different challenge from that of a fifty-year-old.

While my stories and lessons can be of benefit to anyone, this book is intended primarily for women, being based solely on my experience as a woman. It's not only for Americans, but for women throughout the developed world, who face career pressures, personal stress, globalization, and all the traps of twenty-first-century society. And it is not for those whose weight is an immediate health risk, or who require a medically prescribed diet. I speak specifically to women who need to lose up to thirty pounds, which is a great proportion of the population. Nevertheless, like the "Tintin" cartoons, the story is for all ages, seven to seventy-seven, and I offer advice for tailoring it to the various periods of our lives. Since French women do not live by bread alone, much less high protein, I present a comprehensive approach to living, strategies and philosophy you can make your own, including menus and quick recipes anyone can follow and, "bien sur," a guide to how we move. Oh, and I like to think that men of all nations could benefit from learning a thing or two about the other gender.

Okay, so what are the secrets of French women? How do we account for all those middle-aged women with the figures of twenty-five-year-olds strolling the boulevards of Paris? The following chapters draw on observations from my time in Paris (about twelve weeks a year) compared with my weeks in New York City and around the United States and the world. I invite the reader to reflect on the differences and modify her approach to healthy living accordingly.

At the outset, let's state that French women simply do not suffer the terror of kilos that afflicts so many of their American sisters.
All the chatter about diets I hear at cocktail parties in America would make any French woman cringe. In France, we don't talk about "diets," certainly not with strangers. We may eventually share a trick or two we've learned with a very close friend—some cunning refinement of an old French principle. But mainly we spend our social time talking about what we enjoy: feelings, family, hobbies, philosophy, politics, culture, and, yes, food, especially food (but never diets).

French women take pleasure in staying thin by eating well, while Americans typically see it as a conflict and obsess over it. French women don't skip meals or substitute slimming shakes for them. They have two or three courses at lunch and then another three (sometimes four) at dinner. And with wine, "bien sur." How do they do it? Well, that's a story. That's the story. One hint: They eat with their heads, and they do not leave the table feeling stuffed or guilty.

Learning that less "can" be more and discovering "how" one can eat everything in moderation are keys. So are exertion in proportion to calories consumed and a much more plentiful intake of water. We no longer work eighteen hours a day in a mine or on a farm, and our Paleolithic hunter-gatherer days are long past. Nevertheless, most Americans eat at least 10 to 30 percent more than needed, not to survive but to satisfy psychological hunger. The trick is to manage and gratify your appetites, while determining how, when, and what to reduce. The wonderful feelings of satisfaction you'll notice when a new menu is introduced—a heightened enjoyment even as overall intake is decreased—will then inspire you to continue along the wellness road. It's all a matter of learning the most basic of French rules: Fool yourself.

Many nutritionists (valuable educators) promote a commonsense approach but charge a fortune to tell you how to implement it. The money spent on attempting to lose weight is out of all proportion with outcomes. Most women simply can't afford to see a doctor or nutritionist, join a health club, go to a spa, or have meals delivered. What will it cost you to practice the secrets of French women? Well, above the cost of this book, very little. My do-it- yourself approach is within virtually every woman's means. The only equipment is a small scale to weigh some of your foods during the critically important first three months. You might also want to buy a yogurt machine if you want to eat "le vrai yaourt," a key element in my lifestyle program; and if you are past age forty, you should acquire some dumbbells for strength building. "C'est tout."

I begin with my childhood in France and then share my experience as a young woman with a weight challenge. Faced with the first physical wake-up call of my life, I turned to traditional French principles for help. By sharing my experience not only with food, but with a "total approach" to healthy living, I aim to guide each reader toward finding her own "equilibrium." ("Le mot juste" indeed: it's an important concept, because while our bodies are machines, no two are built exactly alike, and they "reset" themselves repeatedly over time. A program that doesn't evolve with you will not see you through the long run.) I provide menus you can follow exactly, but the goal is to develop what works for you as you cultivate a new intuition. I'm not presenting prescriptions so much as templates. Tailor them according to your preferences, paying attention to your own body, schedule, environment, and other unique characteristics. In fact, my emphasis is on the simplicity, flexibility, and "rewards" of doing it yourself. This fine-tuning can't be done by a doctor-author who's never met you.

As I recount my own story from adolescent meltdown to rescue to a new approach that has worked for decades and counting, I lay out a path for you. I take readers through a complete program:

Phase one, "wake-up call:" an old-fashioned three-week inventory of meals. A clear-eyed look at what you're eating, which itself, even after a couple of days, can begin your turn-around.

Phase two, "recasting:" an introduction to the French school of portions and diversity of nourishment. You'll identify and temporarily suspend some key food "offenders." This is usually a three-month process, though for some a month will do the trick. It won't be a dietary boot camp, merely a chance for your body to recalibrate. There is discipline, but flexibility is vitally important, especially at this key motivational stage: the value of avoiding routine both in meals and in activities, emphasizing quality over quantity. No pizza three days in a row, but also no three hours at the gym on Saturday. You'll acclimate with your five senses to a new gastronomy (a Greek word, even before it was a French one, meaning "rules of the stomach"). Three months is not a short time, but neither is it long for something you'll never need to do again. Naturally, it takes longer to reset your body's dials than to lose seven pounds of water, the initial part of many extremist diets. But because it is French, there will be pleasures, lots of them.

Phase three, "stabilization:" a stage wherein everything you like to eat is reintegrated in proper measure. You have already achieved your reset "equilibrium" and should be at least halfway toward your weight-loss goal. Amazingly, at this point you can increase your indulgences and continue to slim down or just maintain your equilibrium if you are already there. I give advice for practicing ideas about seasonality and seasoning, powerful tools and not nearly as much trouble as some imagine. I present more recipes based on the French knack for variations on a theme, or how to make three easy dishes out of one with delicious results, saving time, money, and calories.

Phase four, "the rest of your life:" You are at your target weight, a stable equilibrium, and the rest is just refinements. You know enough about your body and preferences to make little adjustments in the event of any unexpected drifts, especially as you enter new phases of life. Your eating and living habits are by now tailored to your tastes and metabolism, so like a classic Chanel suit, they should last you forever with minor alterations over the years. Now you will be eating in a totally different light, with an intuition to rival that of any French woman—a cultivated respect for freshness and flavor that unlocks the world of sensory delights to be discovered in presentation, color, and variety. What you do you will do for pleasure, not punishment. You'll enjoy chocolate and a glass of wine with dinner. "Pourquoi pas?"

In addition to nourishment, which is the main subject, I'll describe aspects of healthy living that need to be pleasurable as well. As with food, these do not require extreme measures (physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual, or financial)—only a sense of balance. They include elements of what I like to call French Zen, which can be learned quickly and easily and practiced anywhere (mainly, French women do not go to gyms, but if that is your pleasure, "a chacun son gout!"). Even the French know there is much more to life than eating, so here too you'll find the French take on other diversions, like love and laughter. From beginning to end, it will be important to recognize that Montaigne's "apercu" is more relevant today than ever: A healthy body and healthy mind work together. To maintain both, there is no substitute for "joie de vivre" (an expression for which there is tellingly no American equivalent).

Now I have a few stories to tell, a few dozen, actually. I take pleasure in being a raconteur as well as in eating and drinking.
They will drive home basic concepts, but I hope you will also enjoy them "comme ca." Unlike a diet book, this book doesn't let you flip to graphics and jump right in: you'll have to read it. Learning to eat right is like learning a language—nothing works like immersion.

Let the tale begin.

CHAPTER ONE

VIVE L'AMERIQUE:
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 "lycee" (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 "lycee," 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 h ello, my mother called me. Something was "tres 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.


CHAPTER TWO

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 a 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'Americaine." 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 Ecole" (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 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, distingue, 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 Poilane, the famous breadmaker's shop, where I could not resist the "pain aux raisins" or "tarte aux pommes" (apple tart) or "petits sables." Next stop was at a cafe for the ubiquitous "jambon-beurre" (ham on a buttered baguette) and what remained of the Poilane pastry with coffee. Dinner always included and sometimes simply was an eclair, "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 "gouter" (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?

Back in France, I continued to eat "n'importe quoi," though there were no brownies to be found. Perhaps I missed my adoptive second home and was searching for my madeleine—remembrance of sweets past. In any case, I became very free and easy with all the goodies France had to offer. Finally, I was a "mille-feuille" junkie. Like an addict's, my body came to expect too much of what had once been blissfully intoxicating in small doses.

It was time to enter rehab, but fortunately Dr. Miracle had never heard of cold turkey. (The French don't much care for "dinde" at any temperature.)

Dr. Miracle's approach was much less confrontational and more civilized. According to him, there are two selves in each of us: the one who wants to be slim and healthy and the one who wants something else. One sees the big picture—well-being, self-esteem, fitting into the latest fashions. The other wants pleasures aplenty, and now. One is Narcissus leaning over his pool; the other is Pantagruel leaning over his table. The key, he said, was not to conquer the second, but to broker a rapprochement: make friends of your two selves and be the master of both your willpower "and" your pleasures. That was the French way.

(This excerpt ends on page 23.)

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