Quotes About French

I'd like to be reincarnated as a French tart. They're so beautiful and delicate - they're like my opposite. I'm more of a comfort food: goat cheese with garlic.

My dear citizens, fellow citizens, French people, this 6th of May, have just chosen change by bringing me the presidency of the French republic. I feel the honor, which has been given to me and the task, the important task faced beyond - in front of you to serve my country.

The French have got taste.

I'm always fetishizing the French woman and French taste and style. My assistant will make fun of me because every time we're picking the direction of a collection, I say the same thing: 'I want it to be really French.'

When I wrote 'Barefoot in Paris,' I wanted to make simple recipes that you could make at home that tasted like French classics.

The French have bizarre tastes. Maybe that's why they like me.

French women famously take care over their appearance, but this wasn't instilled in me as I grew up. I was taught that beauty comes from different places, from the inside and from the outside.

Gradually, I developed opinions about food, and my French friends taught me that you have to complain in a restaurant.

My teacher, Josef Gingold, a student of the French school, always loved the music of Saint-Saens and Henri Vieuxtemps and all the French repertoire.

My first public impression was my French teacher, Derek Swift.

What you notice in French nurseries is just how calm they are. All of their classes are structured and led by teachers. It's a requirement.

They believed that overpowering the feeble French meant something. They believed in the righteousness of their cause, the inevitability of their victory, and the immortality of their young souls. And as they wheeled around to the east and pulled out their Michelin maps of Tunisia, they believed they had actually been to war.

A forward patrol reported capturing a French headquarters near La Sénia, five miles south of Oran, but the office safe yielded only two brassieres and a volume of risqué tales.

CASABLANCA provided Vichy with its best anchorage south of Toulon, and the French navy had chosen to defend the Moroccan port with valor worthy of a better cause.

That Allied victory had cost them 44,000 casualties since DIADEM began on May 11: 18,000 Americans—among them more than 3,000 killed in action—along with 12,000 British, 9,600 French, and nearly 4,000 Poles. German casualties were estimated at 52,000, including 5,800 dead. Americans

They believed they had been blooded. They believed that overpowering the feeble French meant something. They believed in the righteousness of their cause, the inevitability of their victory, and the immortality of their young souls. And as they wheeled around to the east and pulled out their Michelin maps of Tunisia, they believed they had actually been to war.

Watching President Obama apologize last week for America's arrogance - before a French audience that owes its freedom to the sacrifices of Americans - helped convince me that he has a deep-seated antipathy toward American values and traditions.

And like most of her peers, Barbara Ann has a French postal worker's sense of divine entitlement when it comes to her hours.

The show played Montreal in August, where the reviews were raves, both in English and in French, especially for "le fameux chef indien." On October 5 the St. Louis Republican reported that "Buffalo Bill's Wild West attracted an immense crowd to Sportsman's Park yesterday afternoon.

Perhaps he wanted to make Monsieur Daladier feel at home by dressing as the Michelin Man?

How drab the British and the French looked in their office suits, crumpled after their long journeys, compared to the uniforms of the SS and the Italian fascists. How unvirile; how dowdy and outnumbered.

I know historians aren't supposed to fall in love with their own theories, but I was head over heels about the notion of an entire band of female French agents, like a nineteenth-century Charlie's Angels. Only better. It made the Pink Carnation's organization look positively humdrum.

The matches also came into focus: a cheap, bright label, in French. I picked up the box, slid it open, my nose stung by the smell of sulphur. Four matches. I took one, scraped it into life, held it to the oil lamp. A spot of warmth entered the room.

I love the French edition with its uncut pages. I would not want a reader too lazy to use a knife on me.