The Essence of Style: How the French Invented High Fashion, Fine Food, Chic Cafes, Style, Sophistication, and Glamour!

by Joan DeJean

Overview

What makes fashionistas willing to pay a small fortune for a particular designer accessory? Why does a special occasion only become really special when a champagne cork pops? Why are diamonds the status symbol gemstone, instantly signifying wealth, power, and even emotional commitment?

Writing with great élan, one of the foremost authorities on seventeenth-century French culture provides the answer to these and other fascinating questions in her account of how, at one glittering moment in history, the French under Louis XIV set the standards of sophistication, style, and glamour that still rule our lives today. Joan DeJean takes us back to the birth of haute cuisine, the first appearance of celebrity hairdressers, chic cafés, nightlife, and fashion in elegant dress that extended well beyond the limited confines of court circles. And Paris was the magical center — the destination of travelers all across Europe.

Full of wit, dash, and verve, The Essence of Style will delight fans of history and everybody who wonders about the elusive definition of good taste.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780743264143
Publisher:	Free Press
Publication date:	05/30/2006
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	320
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.10(d)

About the Author

Joan DeJean, author of seven previous books on French literature, history, and culture during the reign of Louis XIV, is Trustee Professor of French at the University of Pennsylvania, where she has taught for the past fifteen years. She has also held positions at both Princeton and Yale. Bicultural, she shuttles regularly between her homes in Philadelphia and Paris, with her finger on the pulse of both venues.

Read an Excerpt

Introduction: Living Luxe

Why is it that people all over the world share the conviction that a special occasion becomes really special only when a champagne cork pops? And why is that occasion so much more special when the sparkling wine being poured is French? Why are diamonds the status symbol gemstone, instantly signifying wealth, power, and even emotional commitment? What makes fashionistas so sure that a particular designer accessory — a luxe handbag, for instance — will be the ultimate proof of their fashion sense that they are willing to search high and low for it and, if necessary, wait for months for the privilege of paying a small fortune to acquire it? Why is having a haircut from the one-and-only stylist, and that stylist alone, so essential to the psychic well-being of so many that it seems they would do almost anything to make sure that less magic scissors never come near their hair?

All these dilemmas, and many other mysteries of the fashionable life as well, first became what we now call issues at the same period — what may well be the most crucial period ever in the history of elegance, élan, and luxury goods. At that moment, Louis XIV, a handsome and charismatic young king with a great sense of style and an even greater sense of history, decided to make both himself and his country legendary. When his reign began, his nation in no way exercised dominion over the realm of fashion. By its end, his subjects had become accepted all over the Western world as the absolute arbiters in matters of style and taste, and his nation had found an economic mission: it ruled over the sectors of the luxury trade that have dominated that commerce ever since.

This book chronicles the origins of fashion and gastronomy and the process that brought luxury goods and luxurious experiences into the lives of people all over the Western world. It tells how the young King succeeded in giving his nation's culture a unique definition. It also describes how he accomplished something far more impressive: he set new standards for food, fashion, and interior decoration, standards that still provide the framework for our definitions of style.

Experiences that range from dining out in a fashionable spot to shopping in a chic boutique for a must-have fashion accessory or a diamond ring; luxury products such as champagne, as well as some of the dishes we most love to savor while we sip it (crème brûlée, for instance) — all of them came into being at the same moment. The extraordinary wave of creativity that swept over France under Louis XIV's patronage unleashed desires that now seem fundamental. Without the Sun King's program for redefining France as the land of luxury and glamour, there would never have been a Stork Club, a Bergdorf Goodman, a Chez Panisse, or a Cristophe of Beverly Hills (and President Clinton would never have dreamed of holding Air Force One on the runway of LAX for an hour while Cristophe worked his styling magic on his hair).

The story of Louis XIV and of France at the defining moment of its history, the half century between 1660 and Louis XIV's death in 1715, is a saga that forces us to ask ourselves just how it is that countries and cities acquire a personality or a sense of definition. In most cases, no one person can be said to be responsible for these national images. The characteristics on which they are based — Dutch cleanliness, German precision — are the product of the shared sociopsychological makeup of a people.

But in the case of France, a national personality was the product of the type of elaborate and deliberate image making of which Hollywood or Madison Avenue would be proud. In the sixteenth century, the French were not thought of as the most elegant or the most sophisticated European nation. By the early eighteenth century, however, people all over Europe declared that "the French are stylish" or "the French know good food," just as they said, "the Dutch are clean." France had acquired a sort of monopoly on culture, style, and luxury living, a position that it has occupied ever since. At the same time, Paris had won out over all its obvious contemporary rivals — Venice, London, Amsterdam — and had become universally recognized as the place to find elegance, glamour, even romance. Beginning in the late seventeenth century, travelers were saying what novelists and filmmakers are still repeating: travel to Paris was guaranteed to add a touch of magic to every life.

Most remarkable of all is the fact that, from this moment on, that touch of magic became widely desired: elegance, luxury, and sophistication became factors to be reckoned with, to an extent never before conceivable. Within restricted, elite circles, sophisticated food and elegant dress had always been aspired to. Some of the trends described here had precedent, for example, in ancient Rome. At different moments, certain nations had been widely thought to be more knowledgeable about the luxurious life than others: during the Renaissance, for example, Italy set the standards for fine dining and dress.

All these earlier incarnations of the good life are, however, different in three essential ways from what was put into place in seventeenth-century France. First, their impact was always extremely limited: very few people outside of Italy ever dressed or ate in the Italian manner; even within Italy, the new luxury rarely touched the lives of those outside court circles. Second, even though we would surely agree that what was then considered a fabulous feast or a sumptuous outfit was indeed extraordinary, none of those fashions are still being copied. Finally, never before had a city ruled over the empire of style and sophistication for more than a brief period. In the 1660s, Paris began a reign over luxury living that still endures, three and a half centuries later. This happened because the French understood the importance of marketing: thus, when fashion became French, the fashion industry began, along with concepts such as the fashion season that continue to be essential to that industry's functioning.

The institutions, the values, and the commodities that came into existence under Louis XIV's patronage marked a radically new departure for the realm of luxury. For the first time, new standards for elegant living transcended all the barriers, both geographic and social, that had previously limited their influence. A French shopgirl would certainly not have been able to afford an entire outfit in the latest fashion. Even if she got only one new accessory, however, she wanted to get it just right — the right cut, the right color, to be worn the right way — and she wanted it to be beautiful. Indeed, one late-seventeenth-century commentator prepared foreigners planning a trip to Paris for a new experience: "Every ordinary woman there will be more magnificently dressed than the finest ladies in their home nations."

People in cities all over Europe became slaves to French food, fashion, and design, and to food, fashion, and design that imitated as closely as possible what was being created in Paris. As the German lawyer and philosopher Christian Thomasius announced in 1687: "Today we want everything to be French. French clothes, French dishes, French furniture." And even before the United States was a nation — as soon as the new cities in North America had populations large enough to constitute a market — we became a society of consumers: in matters of taste and style, many of the original American conspicuous consumers began to dream of dancing to the French drummer, too.

The refashioning of France did not take place because the French had somehow become inherently more elegant or had suddenly been genetically endowed with the most refined palates in the world. Today at least, the French do share characteristics that support their national image — they like to talk about food, particularly while putting away prodigious repasts, far more than, say, the English; an abnormally high percentage of French women have the fabulous bodies that make fashion into a statement without ever having sweated through a step class. It's not important that we'll never know whether any of this was already true in the seventeenth century, for one thing at least is clear: the transformation of the French into gourmets and fashion queens was a matter of much more than shared national propensities. It was truly an affair of state.

During the summer of 1676, Louis XIV came up with what some saw as one of the more eccentric of his many plans for the beautification of Paris. He imported hundreds of wildly expensive white swans to add a touch of elegance to the Seine. He ordered a colony established on a small island directly opposite the capital's favorite promenade, the Cours-la-Reine; Parisians and visitors could thus take a stroll, display their latest finery, and observe the exotic birds, all at the same time. The birds were also perfectly positioned so that anyone traveling from Paris to Versailles would have a view of them along the way. Critics pointed out that the noble birds were not cut out for the polluted and congested waters of a river that then bustled with the transport of merchandise to and from the French capital. The King would have none of it. It was style he was after, and style he was determined to get. It is hardly surprising that — despite the numerous laws that were passed to protect their nests — many of the King's exotic birds died. What is amazing is that so many of them survived that, more than half a century later, the head of the Parisian police was still personally looking out for their well-being.

From the beginning, it was always thus. Louis XIV seems to have known exactly the image he wanted conveyed when anyone thought of Paris or of France, an image of graceful elegance and tasteful opulence. In order to achieve this goal, every detail received his personal attention — from swans to streetlights for his capital city to the heels for men's shoes. "Louis XIV thought of everything," remarked one of his greatest admirers, Voltaire; "not only did great things happen during his reign, but he made them happen." In almost all cases, he not only succeeded in achieving his goals; those goals, once achieved, have since become synonymous with what we now think of both as a quintessentially French look and as the essence of style.

Even his methods are still our methods. Ours is an age in which everything from supermarkets to drugstores to cafés can increasingly be found open, as we now say, 24/7. The frontier between day and night is constantly being eroded because we refuse to wait for what we want. As long as the asparagus are tasty and the blooms beautiful, we don't care where they were grown. Critics may rail against our desire to dominate nature, but it has become a fact of life. And it means that Louis XIV is someone our instant-gratification society can understand. Like us, he wanted what he wanted when he wanted it: baby peas, bright lights, more diamonds than anyone had ever seen. When nature was against him, he had the technology invented that would make it bow to his desires. His life and his person were an advertisement for the passion for aesthetic perfection. The first customers for the fabulous new French fashions and cuisine and design also wanted a piece of the Sun King's very own style.

In 1660, Paris was poised to leave its mark on the Western world. In the course of the seventeenth century, and particularly during the century's final decades, Paris more than doubled in size. By 1700, Paris and London were about the same size (roughly 550,000 inhabitants), the largest cities in Europe, and virtually tied for the position of fourth-largest city in the world — after Constantinople, Edo (today's Tokyo), and Beijing. They had left far behind the many European cities — Venice, Prague, Naples, Rome — that had been only slightly smaller at the beginning of the century. Amsterdam had also known a growth spurt during the same period, but it never rivaled the two leaders. During the eighteenth century, London would continue its remarkable growth, whereas Paris remained stationary. But when Louis XIV began his reign, France's capital was on the move, undergoing one of the most spectacular periods of expansion in its history.

Louis XIV is remembered as the most powerful monarch in French history, the king who transformed France into a modern nation. In the early 1660s, at the beginning of his personal reign, he consciously set out to make France different from all its European rivals. In particular, he wanted to overshadow the country he contemptuously referred to as "that nation of shopkeepers," the Dutch, then Europe's greatest mercantile and shipping power. (He put England, Holland's foremost rival in these domains, in the same category.) The King resolved that France would become a mercantile superpower and that it would achieve this status fully on its own terms. With the help of his contrôleur général des finances, or minister of finance, Jean-Baptiste Colbert — the man who wrote the modern book on economic protectionism and trade wars — he was determined to corner for his country a hugely lucrative market: the luxury trade.

The partnership between the style-obsessed monarch and the hard-nosed businessman was a marriage made in heaven that was the guiding force during the key decades (1661-1683) for the invention of France's new national image. Together, they invented in particular the perfect partnership between art and merchandising: the King always required absolute stylistic perfection; Colbert kept his eye resolutely on the bottom line. Together, they created the first economy driven by fashion and taste. Because of their partnership, luxury commerce was, well, made commercial to a previously unheard-of degree. Colbert worked closely with the country's business elite; he made sure that every aspect of high-end merchandising — from trade regulations to import duties — was tailored to favor his nation's business community.

The foundation of the economic policy that Colbert imposed on France was simple: a nation's prosperity and strength were directly tied to the quantity of gold and silver it held in reserve. In order to increase this supply, imports had to be kept as low as possible, exports as high as possible. Those decades during which Colbert was in office were also the moment at which France knew its most acute monetary crisis of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. For centuries after the conquest of the New World, precious metal had entered into circulation in France via Spain: just after the mid-seventeenth century, this source suddenly dried up.

In such an economic climate, Colbert's bottom line was plain: first, to make sure that all the goods Louis XIV considered essential to the promotion of his image as the wealthiest, the most sophisticated, and the most powerful monarch in Europe would be produced in France and by French workers; and second, to make certain that as many people as possible would be slavishly following the Sun King's dictates and buying only the same French-made luxury goods that the King featured at Versailles. Colbert accomplished his mission so successfully that one of his eighteenth-century successors, the Genevan banker Jacques Necker, who was among the last finance ministers to serve the French state before the Revolution of 1789, paid him the ultimate compliment, businessman to businessman: "For the French, taste is the most fruitful of businesses." The King created new standards for luxury that were accepted as inherently French, and Colbert saw to it that every product that could be linked to that look had been marketed as widely as possible. And we think that Hollywood and Madison Avenue are only now inventing tie-ins.

Thus, virtually under royal decree, France embarked upon the most extraordinary age of creativity in its history. By the end of the seventeenth century, the two concepts that have ever since been most essential to both the country's fame and its trade balance had been invented and had immediately become inextricable from France's national image: haute cuisine and haute couture. At the same time, a number of professions were created that even today remain essential to the self-image of the nation that reinvented elegance and style: the world was introduced to the first celebrity chefs, celebrity couturieres — and even the first celebrity hairdressers. Institutions that have remained central to the experience of Paris had come into existence: among them, the first elegant cafés anywhere; the prototype for today's most famous flea market, Paris's marché aux puces; the original restaurant scene; and an amazing variety of upscale boutiques — for instance, the concentration of fancy gem stores and jewelry merchants near the Place Vendôme that tourists still ogle today.

France's national image was the product of a collaboration between a king with a vision and some of the most brilliant artists, artisans, and craftspeople of all time — men and women who were the founding geniuses in domains as disparate as wine making, fashion accessorizing, jewelry design, cabinetry, codification of culinary technique, and hairstyling. There was a second collaboration: between Louis XIV and a series of brilliant inventors, the creators of everything from a revolutionary technology for glassmaking to a visionary pair of boots. Each of these areas seems modest enough in and of itself. All together, however, they added up to an amazingly powerful new entity. Thanks to Louis XIV, France had acquired a reputation as the country that had written the book on elegant living.

No one could argue that royal patronage alone made possible the extraordinary burst of creativity that characterized Louis XIV's reign. It is, however, certain that the Sun King's wild cravings sharpened the entrepreneurial instincts of those who, at virtually the same moment, revolutionized fields ranging from jewelry design to menu design to interior design. Such a range of talent could never have flourished without the omnipresent devotion to stylistic and aesthetic perfection that reigned over the French court. Once again according to Voltaire: "Almost everything was either reinvented or created in [Louis XIV's] time."

In matters of style and fashion, just as Louis XIV had wanted, the French did it first; they did it best — and they did it most luxuriously. They produced the Vuitton bags, the Hermès scarves, the Chanel suits, the Lalique glass, the Dom Pérignon champagne of the day (and in the case of the champagne, the real Dom Pérignon was actually making it), always the most deliriously dear consumer goods and never, never the less expensive knockoffs (that was always England's preserve). France had become a mercantile power to be reckoned with, and no one would ever have called it a nation of shopkeepers.

Louis XIV also fostered the first culture to recognize the full potential of décor. By the end of the seventeenth century, France had become known as the world center for interior decoration — indeed, the modern concept of interior decoration may be said to have been created during the Versailles era. Décor functioned as an essential part of the new art of living then being established, as the necessary backdrop to a life of quality. During the seventeenth century's closing decades, French architects and designers put together the first coffee table books on interior decoration: they collected lavish engravings of, say, the new ways in which mirrors were being used to add dazzle to a room. These books circulated all over Europe, introducing the look designers quickly named "the royal style" or "the French look."

The story of how Paris became what we now think of when someone says "Paris" is the story of men and women who were able to reinvent the wheel in many different domains because they understood the fundamental importance of these two concepts: Stick to the high-end and forget the low. Never underestimate the importance of décor and ambiance. Take, for example, the café. The coffeehouse became an institution in England, the Netherlands, and Germany in the 1650s and 1660s. The original coffeehouses were fairly modest affairs; men frequented them to drink coffee and beer and to smoke. This concept had no appeal in France. And then, in 1675, the humble English coffeehouse was reinvented and quickly became an essential part of the new capital Paris was then becoming.

Francesco Procopio transformed the coffeehouse; he made it exquisite. His peers referred to him as an "artist": he had, after all, created the formula that made the café a way of life in Paris. Elsewhere, cafés featured nothing worthy of the name décor, whereas, at the Café Procope, the tables were made of marble, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the walls were decorated with elegant mirrors, and coffee was served from silver pots. Beer was banished from these elegant surroundings; patrons sipped exotic cocktails instead. And they could snack on delicate pastries and sorbets in flavors such as amber and musk. The Procope was, in short, the original chic café.

Its example was quickly emulated: by the turn of the eighteenth century, the world's first café scene had been created in the newly fashionable Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood. Parisian cafés attracted a very different clientele than their counterparts elsewhere in Europe — elegant women, who would never have set foot in a coffeehouse, frequented cafés to see and show off all the latest fashions.

The same ground rules — make it chic and make it cher — launched what was soon considered a quintessentially French profession, hairdresser to the rich and famous. One man created the new profession — the word coiffeur was invented to describe his work. The first coiffeur was known to all simply as "le sieur [Monsieur] Champagne." Champagne instilled new beliefs in his clients: the right hairdresser could work miracles; hair could be styled in more ways than anyone had ever thought possible; a fashionable woman simply had to change her style to follow current trends. Because of Champagne, hairdos began to change with the fashion seasons, and women began to panic whenever they had a bad hair day — in fact, hairstyles became so complicated that, for the first time ever, they had good reason to panic.

Champagne, like many mythic coiffeurs since then, tyrannized his clientele: otherwise all-powerful princesses trembled, terrified that he might drop them from his A-list; they begged him to accompany him on their travels. Champagne's success launched the hair salon. By the century's end, the best-known coiffeurs and coiffeuses still made house calls for their favorite clients, but they also had shops, conveniently clustered near the Louvre, where well-heeled tourists could have their hair styled in the latest Paris fashion in order to dazzle those back home.

The original hair salons were only one example of how the new emphasis on style changed the way the city looked and functioned. The wave of creativity that swept over France reinvented shopping. Prior to the age of Louis XIV, fashion was most often negotiated in private: merchants visited clients in their homes, bringing with them samples of their wares. And when people did shop in public, they did so under conditions that were hardly designed to encourage them to linger over their purchases. Before Louis XIV's reign, shops were mere storehouses for merchandise, so no attention was paid to their décor. The bottom half of a shop's shutters folded down to make a table on which goods were displayed; the top half folded up, forming a protective awning. Customers remained in the street and never went inside. Those who made fashion into an industry also thought up a revolutionary way of showing off their ever-expanding range of offerings. They invented both the modern shop and the modern experience of shopping.

During the last two decades of the seventeenth century, for the first time ever, customers began to go inside to make their purchases (Figure I). The earliest modern shops were the precursors of our chic boutiques; they displayed the glorious fabrics and designer accessories that quickly made Paris the fashion capital of the Western world. And they displayed the new luxury goods in surroundings that were worthy of them, the first interiors designed to make people want to make purchases. In his account of his 1698 visit to Paris, the English physician Martin Lister called attention to the new kind of shop he had discovered there, shops so "finely adorned" that they had "an air of greatness." He also remarked on another innovation — the original shopwindows, which had niches designed to show off samples of the wares available inside. These were still another milestone in the history of shopping, the earliest eye-catching facades.

The experience of boutique shopping began when the first fashionistas were enticed into these original high-end shops, which, by the century's end, had begun to cluster near a street that continues even now to feature cutting-edge boutiques, the rue Saint-Honoré. In those boutiques, the fashion queens of Versailles learned such new pleasures as the joy of displaying their most perfect outfits to an insider audience and the thrill of observing a particularly perfect new accessory that someone else had found before them and that they now just had to have.

At the same moment, a second category of merchants was also transforming shopping into an activity so glam that an elite clientele would want to indulge in it in public. We would now call them antique dealers, but in the seventeenth century theirs was a profession so new that it did not yet have a name. Their shops featured what could be called couture for the home, a range of objects — from high-end furniture to old master paintings and exotic wares from the Orient — that until then had been of interest only to a small audience of collectors, who had displayed them in their private museums. Suddenly they were being acquired by the beautiful people as decoration for their elegant interiors. To attract this new type of buyer, merchants created an equally well turned out shopping experience. Customers shopped in elegantly decorated interiors in which a dazzling selection of goods was artfully arranged. And they were waited on by attractive shopgirls dressed in the latest fashions. This was an idea so unique to the Parisian scene that well over a century later, an American journalist visiting Paris was still startled by this aspect of shopping in Paris: "In France there are no shop-men. No matter what is the article of trade...you are waited upon by girls, always handsome, and always dressed in the height of the mode."

And Louis XIV presided over all these transformations like a master choreographer. As the Italian diplomat Giovanni Battista Primi Visconti concluded after a lengthy sojourn at the court of Versailles: "He [Louis XIV] knew how to play the king perfectly on all occasions." During the final decades of his reign, he became a sort of one-man stylistic police, obsessively checking to make sure everything around him constantly lived up to his aesthetic standards. When all was just right, he took great pleasure in the conspicuous display of gorgeousness. For example, on December 7, 1697, the King — he was then fifty-nine — hosted some of the grandest festivities of the age to celebrate the marriage of his eldest grandson, the Duc de Bourgogne. For one evening reception, Versailles' Hall of Mirrors was lit with four thousand candles, transforming it into a vast arcade of flickering light.

In his memoirs, Versailles insider the Duc de Saint-Simon gave the celebration coverage worthy of Tom Wolfe. He portrayed the King "tak[ing] great pleasure in examining everyone's outfits. The air of contentment with which he savored the profusion of materials and the brilliant inventiveness was evident, as well as the satisfaction with which he praised...the most superb and ingeniously designed outfits." Saint-Simon went on to deride the wave of moderation-is-so-very-overrated consumerism unleashed by the monarch's personal pleasure in a job well done: "People were trying to outdo each other to find the most sumptuous clothing. All Paris's shops were stripped bare in a few days. The entire town was in the grips of frenetic opulence." Two duchesses were even rumored to have kidnapped their favorite couturiere, in order to guarantee that they would get just the outfits they wanted for the festivities — and that no one else would be able to avail themselves of her services. (Can you imagine two starlets bundling Donatella Versace off to a hideaway so that no one could outshine them on the red carpet on Oscar night?) As Saint-Simon concluded, "There was no way to restrain oneself in the midst of so much madness. It was essential to have several complete new outfits; between Madame de Saint-Simon and myself, it cost us 20,000 livres" — roughly $1 million in today's terms. Luxe indeed.

On some level, the King knew that he had created a monster: in this case, he wondered how it was "that there were so many husbands crazy enough to let themselves be ruined so that their wives could own fancy dresses." And the royal wedding was, of course, only a drop in the bucket of the wildly conspicuous consumption characteristic of the Versailles era. Louis XIV's critics decried his free spending and said that he would bankrupt his country. At some moments, it certainly seemed that they would be proven right. The following pages will be full of the fabulous things that the King's passion for style inspired his subjects to create and rarely discuss the husbands who were ruined when their wives got in over their heads in the whirl of luxury. Was it all worth it? The King might have said that without his extravagant spending, the luxurious experiences for which his country is still celebrated would not have come into existence. The businessman might have added that without it, tourism would not be France's number-one industry today.

In fact, the modern tourist industry began the minute the new French style was in place: it was as if Louis XIV had given it a raison d'être. One of the earliest appearances of "tourism" listed by the Oxford English Dictionary, from 1872, sums it up perfectly: "Tourism was born in the seventeenth century, and Englishmen were the first to practice it." The young English nobles who were the original modern tourists attracted a great deal of attention because they were such high livers. Gregorio Leti, an Italian historian writing in the 1690s, noted that they traveled "with beautiful style" and that they "spent magnificently." He added that far and away the favored destination for all their magnificent spending was Paris. The English visitors to Paris were soon joined by the first hordes of German, Dutch, and Scandinavian tourists; Italians and Spanish in smaller numbers met up with them in Paris — thus, the kind of free-spending café society now known as Eurotrash first came to be. To accommodate it, a tourist infrastructure quickly sprang up.

To introduce foreign visitors to the wonders of the French capital and to its new infrastructure, between 1690 and 1720 the first modern guidebooks were published. There had been earlier guides to major cities; they discussed only their principal monuments. Never before had such volumes included, in addition to the information about must-see sites, the kind of advice we now expect to find: where to stay, what to eat, and what to do. Most of the first guidebooks to Paris suggested walks along planned itineraries through the city's neighborhoods; some were published in sizes small enough to be slipped in one's pocket to take along on those walks. In 1694, an enterprising publisher began selling the first small-format map of Paris, designed specifically to help foreign tourists and businessmen navigate the city's often complicated streets.

These new guidebooks also featured a type of information that no one had given travelers before: where to shop and what to shop for during a stay in the French capital. Earlier guidebooks had never included information on shopping for the simple reason that there had not been enough information to give: Louis XIV's Paris had become the first true shopping city. More than anything else, tourist guides stressed that the sheer quantity of all there was to buy surpassed anything ever seen: the display was so dazzling that shoppers easily lost their heads in what an English visitor in 1698 termed the "whirlpool" of luxury goods, and hardly knew where to turn. "Everywhere you look, you see boutiques," one guide for German tourists remarked. A guide for Italians called Paris "the country of desire."

In addition, guidebooks noted what they saw as a new development, a phenomenon familiar to today's jaded consumers, well aware that we need almost none of the things that we continue to accumulate: French merchants were managing to convince shoppers that they absolutely had to have all sorts of completely unnecessary things. They were doing so by making those things exquisite. As a guidebook for German tourists put it, "There are shops that display essential things, but the vast majority are full of pretty baubles, things that really aren't essential in everyday life." And as a guide for English tourists warned, "When you're in Paris, you tend to buy things you had never heard of before." The seduction of the shopper with the promise of beauty and luxury that we now know so well had begun.

Parisian merchants were so successful at convincing people to buy for the sake of buying because they had made shopping glamorous, fun, and even sexy. Shopping had become the kind of experience that nations of mere shopkeepers could never understand; it had become shopping theater in which consumers were spending money because they felt that their lives were somehow being transformed by the event.

Everything that Paris still represents in terms of style is founded on a concept of value already evident in all the luxury commerce that flourished under Louis XIV's patronage. Value was not primarily about price and performance but was determined by intangible factors: it was a matter of aesthetics and elegance. Those who were successful during this emblematic age of French culture were selling much more than food and clothing: they added value by "selling" in addition the look and feel of people and places. They were making formerly everyday experiences into performance art.

Most people today would probably say that they have nothing in common with the men and women of seventeenth-century France. And yet that age's philosophy of aesthetic value has never been more alive and well. At a time when, in many sectors of the economy, increasingly brutal competition has both dramatically raised quality and driven prices down, it has become difficult for businesses to make their mark in the time-honored fashion of commerce in the United States: selling a good product for less. More and more, people have begun to chant the economic mantras of Louis XIV's France. A successful restaurant has to do more than serve good food at a good price: it has to create an environment. It's not enough to offer customers a good product: you have to make them feel special by providing a hefty dose of emotion and drama along with the merchandise.

There's no more perfect illustration of how widespread the influence of Versailles' way of doing business has become in American commerce than this recent ad campaign: "You are a work of art, so dress to be on display....These aren't just shoes; they're performance art." When Payless, hardly the quintessential luxury brand, no longer markets its shoes on the grounds that they are a good value but argues that buying them will transform the quality of our lives, its media strategists are taking a page from those who wrote the book on aesthetic value. The fashionable life is clearly no longer the preserve of a moneyed elite. More of us may now be following the pied piper of Versailles than ever before.

Louis XIV gave the Western world something more durable and far more rare than the luxe goods his subjects so brilliantly crafted and marketed. He succeeded in having some of the basic activities in our daily lives redefined: rather than mundane occurrences, things we simply have to do, they have been promoted to the status of moments of sheer pleasure in which we choose to indulge ourselves. Because of the Versailles era, many of the so-called finer things in life became just that, no longer mere things but finer, aesthetically pleasurable experiences.

And every time we appreciate not only the quality of luscious chocolates but also the glorious pattern of their arrangement in the box; every time we exclaim not only over the extraordinary taste sensations particularly creative cooking gives us but also over the perfect surroundings in which it is served; every time we lust after a designer handbag when a more ordinary brand would do just as good a job of holding our possessions — well, each time we are in essence expressing desires that the Versailles era created for us. We're defining the quality of life as Louis XIV's culture taught us to do. We're hoping that a little of the sheen that those who ruled over Versailles understood so well will add a glow to the surfaces of our lives, too.

So here are the stories of the shoemaker, the hairdresser, the cosmetologist, the cookbook writers, the chef, the diamond merchant, the couturieres and the fashion queens, the inventors of the folding umbrella...and of champagne. Together they created a style that still shapes our ideas of elegance, sophistication, and luxury.

Copyright © 2005 by Joan DeJean

Editorial Reviews

"Effervescent . . . sparkling . . . packed with savory tidbits." — The New York Times

"An enormously readable and civilized book that reveals, in fascinating detail, some of the reasons for the French superiority complex." — Peter Mayle, author of A Year in Provence

From the Publisher