This statue in the Luxembourg Gardens reminds me of, well, me. We are two ladies who obviously enjoy our Parisian bistros (Le Comptoir du Relais, Chez Dumonet-Josephine, Bistro Paul Bert… more on that later) and mid-afternoon macarons of every color and flavor under the rainbow.

Notice the round belly, the full thighs, the meaty calves…

What about the French Paradox, “Why French Women Don’t Get Fat” and all that?

Those wonderful theories only apply when you exercise an ounce of restraint, a touch of elegance and a maniere de vivre tres francais. But when two American girls make landfall in the City of Light (and Duck Fat and Triple Crème Camembert), they must do their gastronomic duty–EAT. Eat and sip and sup until the trousers don’t fit and the leggings begin to lose their stretch. 

So what if I’m bringing back a five-pound Parisian bebe to New York? (I think I’ll name her Pain au Chocolat — Brie de Meaux — Macaron de Caramel. That has a nice ring to it, right?)

She was worth it.