The shoes, the shoes …

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Reportage

31 July 1979 — The most beautifully shod foot encountered in Paris today: a kelly green satin high heel of perfect height, on an exquisite leg attached to an elegant foot at the end of the top leg of a pair that were crossed under the table. Never has a shoe intimidated me as much, or made me feel so inadequate. We were in the 8th arrondissement, a quartier normally out of bounds for my budget, at a restaurant where Judy, the owner of the leg and foot and shoe, said she would take me because to her astonishment I had never tasted mousse au chocolat.

“Theirs is the best, thick and slightly bitter, not airy or sweet. If you’re going to live in France, you have to understand chocolate mousse.”

The cloth was white linen, the cutlery heavy and polished, most other diners were having affairs disguised as leisurely lunches and the window view allowed time to study strolling women with shiny brown boxes, unmarked, that were suspiciously large yet lightweight, the sure sign of an haute couture purchase along the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

She ate none of it, simply watched me with pleasure. She is the bureau chief of Life Magazine and fashion writing is her special expertise. The figure, la ligne to a French woman, is everything. Her other expertise is encouraging writers in whom she has faith, and this was my chance to step into that glorified circle with a mentor like no other. I fretted over my skirt — too long? too short? The Italian…