There’s always something to do in the kitchen—something to chop, something to peel, something to stir. Last weekend, after tiring myself of reading, painting, and walking around my host family’s country home, I wandered into the kitchen, where my host dad’s sister was preparing dinner and the next day’s lunch. Eager for a task, I was thrilled when she handed me a garlic press, a few peeled garlic cloves, some chili peppers, and a handful of mustard seeds with instructions to get pressing. Soon, the warm, sharp aromas of garlic and chili filled the air, ready to be mixed into an overnight marinade for ribs.
As the resident American, she asked for my advice on the meat. I regretfully informed her that my eight prior years as a pescatarian (a streak broken for France) left me clueless about rib marinades or cooking times. Still, I happily tasted the sauce she’d prepared and was impressed that she had whipped it up without a recipe. It was a French reminder: simple cooking is often best.
Beyond these culinary moments, one of my favorite parts of living with a host family is eating like a true Parisian and experiencing the everyday side of French gastronomy. For many, French cuisine might conjure up images of duck confit, beef bourguignon, and endless croissants, but I’ve learned the real French diet is much simpler, rooted in fresh ingredients and thoughtful preparation. I’m lucky to live with a host dad who’s a professional chef and a host mom who cooks delicious meals daily, giving me a rich balance of simple meals and celebratory feasts.
The starkest difference between meals in the U.S. and Paris is breakfast or petit déjeuner. While most Parisians aren’t puffing a cigarette and eating a bar of chocolate at 8 a.m., their first meal is a far cry from the American breakfast of sugary cereal or protein-packed yogurt. From my observations, typical French breakfast fare is a tartine, or toasted baguette with butter or jam, espresso or tea, and fruit—not a croissant in sight. After consuming too much American fitness content on Instagram, I used to stress about not getting 30 grams of protein first thing in the morning. But so far? No consequences.
When it comes to lunch, I’ve had two distinct experiences: the student experience and the non-student experience.
Unlike American high schools, French lycées don’t provide students lunch, so they’re on their own. My program is on the same block as a high school, and every day between 12 and 1 p.m., I see swarms of students queuing outside the local sandwich shop, boulangeries, burger stand, and fast-food joints. Most go for the formule étudiant—a set meal with a sandwich, drink, and dessert for €5 to €9—not a bad deal! University students get an even better offer: student cafeterias called Resto’U around the city serve a hot meal with sides and dessert for 3.30 euros. The food is surprisingly good for the price.
For non-students with a bit more room in their budget, lunch is often the biggest meal of the day. It’s common for working Parisians to take a one- or two-hour break to eat with their colleagues, usually enjoying a main dish, an appetizer, or dessert, and maybe even a glass of wine. On weekends with my host family, lunch tends to be more elaborate than dinner.
During our weekend away, Saturday lunch kicked off with herbed chicken and stuffed tomatoes. Because freshness is such a priority, leftovers are practically nonexistent—we divided the dishes until every last piece of chicken and tomato was gone. Then came a brief salad course (greens and homemade dressing), followed by a cheese plate. Even though I’ve had cheese every week since arriving, I still get self-conscious when it’s my turn to slice, worried I’ll break the strict French cutting rules. Slicing off the tip of a wedge of brie, for example, is a big no-no, and each cheese has its specific cutting geometry that I’m still learning.
Once everyone had their fill of cheese—without any slicing faux pas on my part—and used bread to clean up their plates, my host dad’s sister brought out a dessert: a raspberry tart and chocolate mousse. The only store-bought items on the table, she’d picked them up that morning from a local boulangerie. Just when I thought the meal was finished, someone called for espressos, and we lingered at the table a little longer. Two and a half hours had passed in the blink of an eye, and I left the table feeling satisfied and surprisingly light, not heavy like I would after a similarly lengthy meal in the U.S. Though to be fair, that may have been the wine talking.
Because we had enjoyed such a hearty lunch, dinner that night was kept simple. For a starter, I dipped artichoke leaves into a citrusy, buttery homemade sauce. The main course, split among nine people, included an onion tart, three omelets, and a generous helping of greens. Afterward, we returned to the familiar rhythm of bread and cheese—this time with a few new varieties—before enjoying rice pudding for dessert. Though the fare was lighter, the meal still stretched on for over three hours, thanks to post-dessert debates on French and American politics that kept us chatting long after the plates were cleared.
Weeknight dinners with the host family follow a similar formula: an uncomplicated entrée—often a savory tart, quiche, or meat—served alongside salad (always with homemade dressing), followed by bread and cheese. Sugary desserts are rare; we usually finish with fruit or yogurt, and wine is generally reserved for the weekends. In addition to these cozy family dinners, I’ve also been fortunate enough to attend a few French dinner parties hosted by my family, which offer a longer, more elaborate dining experience.
Dinner parties begin at the typical French hour of 7:30 or 8 p.m. in the living room with un apéritif—a kind of cocktail hour. We’ll spend about an hour sipping on spritzes, wine, or beer, and snacking on olives, chips, or other light snacks. Unlike in the U.S., there’s no cheese before dinner—it’s strictly saved for later.
At our most recent dinner party, my host dad prepared an exquisite five-course meal. After the apéritif, we started with prawns, paused for a salad, moved on to a rich beef bourguignon, passed around the ever-present cheese plate, and finished with a strawberry and whipped cream cake. Each course was savored and unrushed. By the time we wrapped up at 11:30 p.m.—four hours after we’d started—it had become my longest dinner yet. Whether it was the smaller portions or the leisurely pace, I didn’t feel overstuffed like I sometimes do after a Thanksgiving dinner.
Since arriving in Paris, I’ve picked up several new eating habits that I’m excited to bring home. First is a deeper appreciation for whole foods and simple meals. French cuisine revolves around fresh ingredients and homemade sauces, and snacks are usually minimally processed—just fruit or a hunk of baguette. I’ve come to love the idea of keeping meals simple rather than chasing complicated recipes. Second is the after-dinner fruit. I used to eat fruit in the evening sporadically, but now I can’t finish dinner without a clementine, an apple, or something similarly refreshing.
And third—maybe most importantly—is the art of longer meals. At Harvard, I always prefer to sit down with friends for meals instead of eating from to-go containers in the library like many of my peers. I’ve always believed that long meals are a meaningful way to connect with friends and pause during busy days, but I’m not yet at the French level of two-and-a-half-hour lunches or four-hour dinners. Differences in meal time reflect a broader difference in the French and American way of life; in France, people prioritize enjoying life and socializing in a way that the workaholic culture of America could learn from. The breaking of bread is one of humanity’s oldest rituals, and the French seem to understand this intuitively: meals are not just for eating, but for savoring, sharing, and staying at the table a little while longer. Frances Connors ‘26 (maryfrancesconnors@college.harvard.edu) has finally developed a taste for blue cheese.