Modern Love & A Year of Restaurants in Paris
Answering FAQs about my recent New York Times essay, a memoir teaser, some favorite restaurants in Paris, & The 75 shouts & whispers.
Welcome to The 75
This is a newsletter about Paris — restaurant intel, cool bars, post-midnight mischief, and occasional jaunts elsewhere. It’s about being a food and travel writer in Paris in the roaring 2020s, with personal anecdotes and essay snippets. For the first newsletter, I’ll be covering my Modern Love essay (FAQs & what’s next), the spots that stole my heart in my post-divorce year, and some shouts & whispers from the Paris scene.
When my ex-husband told me he was divorcing me, I felt blindsided. We were standing in the kitchen, the January light trickling through the tall windows. He leaned against the countertop, his fingers pressed over eyes I once gazed into and said ‘yes’—for better or worse. That same day, his parents moved into our apartment. It was their apartment on paper, but for all intents and purposes, they had given it to us—a nest egg to raise our family, swaying us to swap my New York, and our airy South Williamsburg loft, for his Paris. We spent four years renovating—weekends scouring musty storage spaces filled with decades of knick-knacks and framed art and family keepsakes. It was, after all, the apartment that Guillaume had grown up in. I spent four years living in dust, as we destroyed walls and put up new ones. We put down blonde wood floors one plank at a time. My ex did most of the actual handiwork, but I helped with unseen tasks: financing, planning, and major choices, like Point de Hongrie or chevron? Clawfoot tub or whatever’s cheapest at Leroy Merlin? (The Home Depot of France.)
I dedicated my heart and many Instagram posts to my most cherished space: the kitchen. We relocated it from a dark corner in the far reaches of our 130-square-meter apartment to a sunny slice of the living room. It was an open kitchen, American-style, but French in its bones, with flowery crown mouldings and floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a wrought iron terrace. The kitchen had mismatched, repurposed cabinets that we painted eggshell white together. It had a faux-wood counter and no backsplash, but I chose every detail—from the gold Ikea faucet to the six-burner STOVES range, the Bentley of cooking apparatus and my one big splurge. I picked the Pepto Bismol-pink mugs, speckled cereal bowls, and flea market crystal wine glasses with the same care I chose our daughter’s name, imagining how they’d look on our minimalist open shelves. I loved that kitchen. And then, in an instant, I lost it. There was also my marriage.
I wrote about my divorce and the lingering feelings in my recent Modern Love essay, My Struggle to Stop Loving Him (the headline was not my choice—more on that later). I mentioned earlier that the whole ordeal blindsided me, but truth be told, it shouldn’t have. Things had been rocky for at least a year, and we had become regulars in the sun-splashed Haussmannien office of a 30-something couples therapist with chestnut hair and olivey skin. She’d say things like, “You have to remember the wonder you feel for each other,” her Rs thick and raspy. Inevitably, he’d be sighing while I reached for the tissue box. But when we left; when our 45 minutes were up; there was always a sense of catharsis. We’d pause in the shadows of the wide, carpeted stairwell, and giggle like teenagers, me on tip-toes, him leaning down, lips smiling through the press of a kiss. Then we’d hurry back into the daylight and the crush of another Wednesday in Paris. In a few days, the sense of renewal—the goodwill—would crumble.
I habitually threatened to leave. But I didn’t—maybe a lack of courage; maybe the complicating factor of being in a foreign country with a kid. His home, his childhood apartment no less, was the only one I knew in Paris. To live elsewhere; to have the life and the home I have today; was unfathomable. That he pulled the plug first, and in a way that was deliberately calculated and surreptitious, felt like the ultimate betrayal. Not to mention, surreal. My only comparable experience was after my high school graduation—the moment a family friend told me my dad had passed away in the early hours of the morning. In both cases, I just couldn’t wrap my head around it.
I can’t pinpoint a moment when I stopped loving my ex. One day I was in love with my husband of six-plus years, despite the insidious toxicity. I loved the sensitive, empathetic, quietly confident man who loved kids and animals and above anything else, me. But, it felt as though one day to the next, that man vanished. And I didn’t know what to do with my feelings for the other guy; I didn’t know where to put them.
Sometimes, I felt like I had fooled myself into thinking I ever loved him at all; like I had turned what should have been a steamy fling with a cute Parisian carpenter visiting New York into a proper relationship with very adult features like dinner parties and shared electricity bills. Sometimes, I despised him: for allowing his parents to move into our familial home, with our then three-year-old daughter, rather than letting us end our marriage with the privacy and dignity it deserved. He claimed no control. I called him spineless.
But in my essay, I chose to write about one particular day, when I was filled with nostalgia; when I willfully turned away from the darkness—I un-remembered the hurt he caused me, and that we caused each other—and instead I focused on the light. And I framed myself as the heartbroken one. That’s part of the truth but not all of it—call it the creative writer’s license. But it also felt important to remove the shame from heartbreak—it happens to the best of us. Our society, myself included, is obsessed with the gory details of who did what to whom. But the truth is: when the grenade goes off, the shrapnel hits everyone. No one walks away unscathed.
I’m still writing the story. I’m working on the next chapter—what happened when I lost my Instagram kitchen and was forced to build my own home in Paris and rediscover the city as an independent single mom. A trained cook, with stints at several Michelin-starred restaurants, the kitchen was my safe space; my calm pause at the end of the day; my “parenthesis,” as the French call it. Without it, I was lost. But I found refuge in the restaurants of Paris; sometimes with guys, but mostly with girlfriends; girlfriends who traveled from New York and Seattle to just be with me, as I cried over steak frites and Neapolitan pizza and crisp hand rolls. Expat girlfriends in Paris who were always down for unhinged weeknight mischief—and, on some days, for curling up on the sofa in comfy sweats, watching Paul Giamatti movies with a bottle of red wine. The memoir I’m working on is tentatively called: A Year of Restaurants in Paris. It’s about rebuilding, rebirth, and rediscovering joy in places I had forgotten to look. It’s about losing him and finding myself—and yes, learning to love that self. And it’s about the restaurants that started to feel like home. Below, I’m sharing some of those spots.
It’s about rebuilding, rebirth, and rediscovering joy in places I had forgotten to look. It’s about losing him and finding myself—and yes, learning to love that self. And it’s about the restaurants that started to feel like home.
Further below, I’m answering some of the most frequently asked questions about my Modern Love essay. I was truly touched by the support and feedback I received. I also received questions—about the submission and writing process, about my divorce and co-parenting, about expat life in Paris, and more. I hope my answers will be helpful to fellow essayists, writers, and curious readers.
Places I loved in the year after my divorce
Soces
📍 32 Rue de la Villette, 75019 Paris
Why I love: This place is my Cheers—where everybody knows your name. Something about the layout and the lighting and the playlist makes this a restaurant you want to go again and again. Co-owner Kevin created a space that feels cozy and unpretentious, with a menu that leans toward seafood and seasonal produce, and a sharp natural wine list to match.
Shinjuku Pigalle
📍 52 Rue Condorcet, 75009 Paris
Why I love: When I moved from Guillaume’s 9th arrondissement apartment, I had to stay around the neighborhood (for our daughter’s school). I found a place slightly up the hill in South Pigalle (or SoPi, the bobo-ized slang for it) and today, this nook of Paris feels mine. Shinjuku is a couple minutes’ walk from my apartment. It’s a Japanese bistro with pristine quality products. The bathroom is very pornographic.
Hôtel Rochechouart (Maggie)
📍 55 Bd de Rochechouart, 75009
Why I love: At Maggie, the Art Nouveau brasserie on the ground floor of Hotel Rochechouart, I first told my good friend Arnita about my split from Guillaume. I can’t remember if I cried but I can remember thinking, damn, this prix-fixe lunch is so good—the right bank’s best kept secret. I had the most perfect crispy schnitzel with an appropriately crisp glass of white wine. They also make a solid dirty martini with their in-house vodka.
Reyna
📍 41 Rue de Montreuil, 75011 Paris
Why I love: My friend Marissa celebrated her Paris anniversary at this Filipino spot, and I was happy to be there—both for her and for the spicy chicken wings. It was my Hot Ones fantasy come true. Serious heat. Temporarily-leave-my-body heat. (For the less adventurous, the wings come in three spice levels.) The natural wine list is great, too.
Le Mary Celeste
📍 1 Rue Commines, 75003
Why I love: I discovered Le Mary Celeste through my good friend Lane, who, years ago, helped me find my footing in Paris by inviting me to a journo/PR apéro at this Marais staple—a small but meaningful gesture I won’t forget. Mary Celeste has crafty cocktails and small shareable plates. Their oeufs mayo are a Paris rite-of-passage at this point.
Hando Hand Roll
📍 89 Rue de Sèvres, 75006 Paris
Why I love: I had a second date here once—a Friday lunch. It went well enough, until I found out he was married. Still, the real takeaway was discovering this sleek counter where hand rolls are made to order and meant to be eaten the moment they hit your plate. Crisp nori, perfectly seasoned rice, the freshest fish—a could-eat-here-weekly kind of place.
Kissproof
📍 50 Rue de Belleville, 75020
Why I love: This Beirut transplant is an easy favorite. It’s unsurprising that you’ll often find the owner, Micky, chilling at the bar with friends. It’s divey, it’s intimate, a little chaotic, and cool. The torch-grilled burger is the best in Paris.
Questions on my NYT Modern Love essay:
Did you really submit 20 times?
Yes. I have the receipts. I submitted so many times that the rejections stopped stinging. It became a ritual, to pen a new essay every time I was inspired. I studied the format and cadence of a NYT Modern Love essay. I listened to the podcast on long walks, noting the arches and rhythms of each story. And I kept submitting.
Did you know the larger ‘truth’ of your essay when you started writing it?
Yes and no. When Guillaume and I took that bike ride to the prefecture, something felt very cinematic about it—the way that bikes had figured into our initial meeting, and there we were, pedalling across Paris, me trailing close behind him and past these beautiful monuments—it may have seemed romantic on its face, but only to complete a mundane bureaucratic procedure. I knew I wanted to tell a story about our relationship and divorce through that ride—a Paris love story that didn’t have a traditional “happily ever after”—but it wasn’t until several drafts later that I drew the analogy between love and traveling. I thought of the last line— the pain is a small price for the ride —on a bus ride between Torrevieja and Alicante.
How was the editing process?
Speedy. I sent my essay on September 2, the day after submissions reopened following the column’s summer break. On February 6, I received an email from Daniel Jones. It began: 'Nice essay—I’d like to talk to you about it.' I was alone, sitting cross-legged on my bed. I pressed my face into the duvet (I have very flexible hips!) and started to sob. Then I called my mom.
That same week, Dan and I spoke for an hour, going over the details. Despite editing thousands of essays, he remains incredibly sensitive and empathetic. Though it’s his job to pry a bit—like when he asked me, 'If he wanted to get back together, would you?'
He did one round of light editing. I tweaked a few words and added the last line. The following week, I received another round of edits—barely any—from the second editor, Anya Strzemien, who was kind and complimentary.
Did you choose the headline?
No. This was the only hitch in the process. My original headline was “Biking Through Paris, Together But Apart,” but the editors insisted that it would not resonate with people. It had no emotional charge. When I read their headline, “My Struggle to Stop Loving Him,” I got a rush of adrenalin. I hated it. It felt so raw; too vulnerable. We went back and forth, and the editors welcomed me to suggest an alternative that would resonate. I resisted their headline until I spoke to my sister, Mary Alice, who edits this newsletter. She said, That is what it’s about.
Did your ex read it?
Yes. He said, Nice article, congrats on the New York Times. I saw him in person and asked again what he thought. He said it was good and then started laughing about how I like to make things up. He said, for example, that his bike lock has a key, not a code. He might be correct.
Did your boyfriend read it?
Yes. He’s an actor and understands mining personal experience for the sake of storytelling and art. I’ve also watched him writhe around on stage in a nut-hugging gold Speedo. It’s all part of the game.
How did it feel? To have your story published in Modern Love.
Honestly—fucking validating.
What are you working on now?
Still writing for various food and travel outlets. I’m working as a producer on a food & travel series that will premier probably in 2026 on CNN. I’m working on my memoir.
Shouts & Whispers from the 75
De Vie, the sustainability-focused spot in the Montorgueil neighborhood from cocktail wizards Alex Francis and Barney O’Kane, has expanded with a new restaurant/comptoir. Irish chef Adam Purcell, whose cooking I first encountered during his residency at Early June, has found a permanent home—and Parisians are better off for it. The focus is squarely on French products, ingredients, and dining traditions—like a trou normand to cleanse the palate before the tasting menu kicks in. Adam nails every dish. Only note: the cocktail pairings didn’t quite counterbalance the richer dishes. A fresher contrast would have helped, especially with the cod confit and the rare, tender pigeon. I would have killed for a crisp white. Otherwise, super tight.
Meanwhile, a certain neo-bistro-pedigreed chef—who helped put one of the hottest restaurants of 2024 on the east Paris map—is quietly eyeing his own venture…
And one of the sceniest spots in town is facing some classic neighbor drama. The nightly hordes have turned this once-sleepy corner of Paris into a smoker-filled, late-night hub. If they don’t pipe down, you can bet tensions will boil over.
A beloved tasting menu spot and multicultural melting pot is considering a sister project in Pigalle. Whatever this team launches will likely turn to gold.
Text: Caitlin Gunther
Editing: Mary Alice Gunther
I love your style and the way you make it so real as I can feel myself in the story. Brava! Looking forward reading you.
Made me remember my own blindsiding... many moons ago. One never forgets.