X

We specialize in hard to find items

Galleon.PH - Discover, Share, Buy!
French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating
French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating
French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating

French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure

Product ID : 45634718


Galleon Product ID 45634718
Shipping Weight 0.6 lbs
I think this is wrong?
Model
Manufacturer
Shipping Dimension 6.89 x 4.21 x 1.1 inches
I think this is wrong?
-
Save 19%
Before ₱ 692
561

*Price and Stocks may change without prior notice
  • 3 Day Return Policy
  • All products are genuine and original
  • Cash On Delivery/Cash Upon Pickup Available

Pay with

About French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret Of Eating

Product Description The million copy, ultimate #1 bestseller that is changing the way Americans eat and live Don’t Diet Eat Chocolate Drink Wine Take Long Walks Enjoy Life Stay Slim the French way Experience the joie de vivre of French Women Don’t Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano Review “Delightful. . . . Hands down, this is the best of the newest crop of weight-control books.” — USA Today “The perfect book. . . . A blueprint for building a healthy attitude toward food and exercise.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Filled with slimming secrets.” — People “Not only delicious, but a true story of one of the greatest ladies in the world.” —Chef Emeril Lagasse About the Author Born and raised in France, Mireille Guiliano first lived in America as an exchange student and came back for good early in her professional career. She is president and CEO of Clicquot, Inc., whose headquarters are in New York, and a director of Champagne Veuve Clicquot in Reims. Married to an American, Mireille lives most of the year in New York and makes frequent trips to Paris as well as across America. www.mireilleguiliano.com. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1VIVE L’AMÉRIQUE: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 lycée (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 lycée, 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 hello, my mother called me. Something was très 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 h