The Last Restaurant in Paris Quotes

“When you lose someone that you've known your whole life, pretty much, it's like you don't just mourn the person you lost at the end, you mourn everything that happened before. All those memories wash over you, like a tide, and it's so easy to get cast adrift”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“Monsieur Géroux collected small good things. The unexpected sound of birdsong, a half-price sale at the bakery, a smile from a passing child. Storing them in his mind for later, when needed.”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“Each of us is told a story about how we begin. One that starts with the people who come before us, providing the foundation on which we build ourselves. Yet when that story shifts, unexpectedly, so do we. Our lives becoming feet made of clay.”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“He'd never understand them, his supposed 'betters', and that was the truth. His father, who had never learned to read or write and never had much more than a farthing to his name, had more honour and true gentility in his finger than the whole lot of them combined as far as he was concerned”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“She was a scribble of a woman with curly blonde hair,”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“the young haven’t yet learned yet how real the past is, just a whisper away the older you get, and sometimes too real to face.”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“It’s the advice we all hate to hear, but it’s the only thing that does help with loss – time. It will never not be tinged with sadness, but someday it will be less painful, you’ll see.”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“For instance, some swore that when the wind changed or a new season approached you could still smell cooking. When the leaves from the plane trees turned gold, rumours swelled of cream and port and roast chicken. Delicious at first, then as the day grows, turning acrid and sour. And when the wisteria bloomed, whispers flew of apricots and butter and clafoutis, similarly mouth-watering in the beginning, but then growing sickly sweeter by the evening, till you needed to breathe through your mouth to escape the decaying scent of rotten fruit.”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“When you lose someone that you’ve known your whole life, pretty much, it’s like you don’t just mourn the person you lost at the end, you mourn everything that happened before. All those memories wash over you, like a tide, and it’s so easy to get cast adrift,”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“A week ago that's what I thought, but now I realise how much I've needed to speak about it. I've held it inside for so long, this part of me buried in darkness - it feels good, somehow, to finally let it see the light. To speak of my brother, to remember him, not just as a victim, but as a person”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“Each of us is told a story about how we begin. One that starts with the people who come before us, providing the foundation on which we build ourselves. Yet when that story shifts, unexpectedly, so do we. Our lives becoming feet made of clay”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“The old antiquarian bookstore was a sliver amongst the larger pastel-coloured shops on the leafy Parisian street of Rue Cardinet. It was called Librairie d'antiquites de Geroux but was, nonetheless, as much a part of the Batignolles village as the Saturday farmers' market, the square, or the tourists retracing the steps of impressionist painter Alfred Sisley. The only other building that seemed as much a part of the furniture was the abandoned restaurant on the corner, like one of those unfortunate heirloom pieces that tends to clash with everything. Most people believed it to be cursed or haunted as a result of what had happened there during the Occupation, when the former owner had poisoned all of her customers one night. A fact that had turned to legend over the intervening years”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“snorted.”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris

“was small; a converted brick building that once held pigs, so Grand-mère said when they walked back, their hands laden with string bags full of produce. ‘It’s not fancy. But I like it.’ Elodie liked it too. As the morning wore on, she helped by staying out of the way, watching with fascination as her grandmother’s hands danced as they chopped and whisked and created mouth-watering dishes.”
― Lily Graham, The Last Restaurant in Paris