Memoir Recaptures the <i> Classique </i> Art Buchwald

“I’ll Always Have Paris” (Fawcett Columbine) is a memoir in paperback, a compilation, expansion and polished recycling of Art Buchwald at the top of his wry, incisive game.

It recaptures the ‘50s when Buchwald’s columns from France were first appearing in the Herald Tribune and the Lost Generation had been replaced by the International Set. Thornton Wilder. The dimwit Duke and shrewd Duchess of Windsor. George Plimpton.

In 1953, Buchwald, assisted by almost everyone in the Trib’s city room, wrote a column explaining the meaning of the Thanksgiving Day feast to the French.

After 44 years, it remains un classique.

Of Buchwald, and of fractured Franglaise:

“One of the most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as ‘le Jour de Merci Donnant.’

“ ‘Le Jour de Merci Donnant’ was first started by a group of pilgrims (Pelerins) who flew from l’Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveaux Monde) where they could shoot Indians (le Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their hearts’ content.

“They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Americaine) in a wooden sailing ship named the Mayflower, or Fleur de Mais, in 1620. But while the Pelerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pelerins. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them how to grow corn (mais). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pelerins.

“In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pelerins’ crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pelerins than Pelerins were killed by the Peaux-Rouges.

“Every year on ‘Le Jour de Merci Donnant,’ parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration. It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilometres Deboutish) and a shy young lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant: ‘Go to the damsel Priscilla (allez tres vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth (la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action (un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe), offers his hand and his heart--the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you understand, but this, in short, is my meaning.

“ ‘I am a maker of war (Je suis un fabricant de la guerre) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar (Vous, qui etes pain comme un etudiant), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooing of lovers, such as you think best suited to win the heart of the maiden.’

“Although Jean was fit to be tied (convenable a etre emballe), friendship prevailed over love, and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow (rendue muette par l’etonnement et la tristesse).

“At length she exclaimed, breaking the ominous silence, ‘If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?’ (Ou est-il, le vieux Kilometres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas aupres de moi pour tenter sa chance?)

“Jean said that Kilometres Deboutish was very busy and didn’t have time for such things. He staggered on, telling her what a wonderful husband Kilometres would make. Finally, Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, ‘Why won’t you speak for yourself, Jean?’ (Chacun a son gout.)

“And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes, and for the only time during the year, eat better than the French do.

” . . . No matter how well-fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilometres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.”