The Dog That Ate Paris

Plum

Plum the Pug, lives in Paris with his human mom, Juliet, a student at the renowned culinary school, Le Cordon Bleu. When a van carrying wine (after all, it is Paris) hits little Plum, his life and Juliet’s, changes dramatically. This funny, canine coming-of-age story features Plum, the talking dog, who not only becomes human in his thoughts but is magically gifted with a palate to rival that of any highly esteemed French chef. And this is where his adventure begins as Plum decides to become a Paris restaurant critic, food blogger and author. Aided by Juliet, and the handsome Tomas, Juliet’s chef instructor at Le Cordon Bleu, Plum takes on the highly charged and cruelly vicious Paris food scene. Plum quickly becomes an international sensation and global media star, after all he is a talking dog. But too much wine, food, TMZ and Access Hollywood-fueled fame help send his celebrity excesses and life spinning wildly out of control. Falling in love was not supposed to happen either. Finding himself at rock bottom, Plum hopes he’ll get a second chance at a normal life. He wonders if the uneasy truth behind his ability to speak will ever come out. And if getting a perfectly clean slate will, truly, give him exactly what he needs to be comfortable in his own, furry, skin.

I’m currently in talks with the producers of Top Chef France to be a celebrity judge on the French version. I’ve told them no thanks twice, but there’s a summer place in Aix-en-Provence with my name on it, and they keep throwing more money at me, so I may take the job.

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, which is a flaw, as is my self-involvement and lack of modesty (of which I am aware and I’m working on it). I’ve been in therapy trying to get in touch with my ego. I tell my shrink that it’s in my DNA, but she says my ego goes much deeper than that.

“You are a dog, first and foremost,” she says.
“You may not like it, but you are not human. You might behave and think like one, but you are of the canine species. The sooner you come to terms with that, as unsatisfying as it may be, then and only then, can your real work begin.”

Besides English, I speak fluent French and some Italian largely because when I used to go for a weekend at George Clooney’s villa in Lake Como, I didn’t like to appear touristy. Most of the Italians I’ve encountered have a resistance to my ability to speak. I tell them to deal with it.

“Affrontare il problema,” I say with the hint of a growl.

Although I was born on a puppy farm in Oklahoma specializing in pugs and bulldogs, I’ve been a Francophile since I was eight-and-a-half months, which was when my mother and I came to Paris.

My birth parents, (of whom I have no memory, but I’ve seen my papers), were named Gus and Ginger. How they wound up in Oklahoma, I don’t know because they were born in Minnesota and Iowa respectively. At nine weeks I was sent to an American Kennel store in New York City, the Upper East Side, to be precise. I was there for two days when the woman who bought me showed up.

Mom. Juliet.

More about her next time.

Au Revior!

Don’t expect me to bark, do tricks or chase after a chew toy because “Je ne fais pas le chien.” If you don’t speak French that means, “I don’t do dog.”

Yes. I am a dog. A pug. And I can talk. I suggest that you deal with that immediately so we can move on because I have a story to tell.

Ten seconds should be enough time to process that information. I’ll use the time to reply to Anthony Bourdain’s text. He’s been trying to set up an interview with me since he arrived in Paris three days ago. He wants me to take him on a tour of the underbelly of Paris for his new show. I’ve been telling him I don’t do that kind of thing anymore, but he’s persistent.

Okay, time’s up.

My name is Plum, shortened from Plumley, shortened from Plumleigh, which is of Anglo-Saxon origin. I’m fawn-colored, with a muscular cobby chest, rose petal ears, a face with an incredible black mask, extra long tongue, double curl tail and I weigh a trim 18 pounds.

Besides being able to talk, I can read, write, reason, make decisions and think.

And, of course, eat.

Most importantly, I can taste. Savor is an even better word. Pugs tend not to savor or even chew food. They just wolf it down like a pig, whatever it is, and come back for more.

I, on the other hand, have a heightened sense of smell, even for dogs, and miraculous taste buds. But I’m best known as a restaurant critic and food writer.

Enough for now. I must meet friends for an afternoon aperitif.