Writer Renée Reardin got a lesson in how to pull off her own variation of French fashion in Paris.Renée Reardin/Supplied
“‘Ello, what can I get yew?” the man behind the counter said in a French accent as thick as Chantilly cream.
It was my first week in Paris, having moved to the city from Toronto in February, 2023. I had walked into a boulangerie for a croissant and hadn’t even opened my mouth to say the obligatory “bonjour” – which one is socially expected to declare upon entering any establishment – when the man swiftly identified me as not French.
But how did he know? I was, after all, wearing my French Girl Staples, which were all I had packed for my new life abroad. What are French Girl Staples, you ask? The same pieces every tourist who has studied Parisian style packs for a trip to the city: a trench that hits below the knee, a menswear-inspired blazer, a pair of relaxed-fit jeans, a bouclé jacket, a boxy white button-up and a French designer bag.
They’re the pieces, we hope, that will sprinkle us with French fairy dust, transforming us into that mystical Parisian type who exudes effortless elegance and quiet sex appeal – the type that us North American women have long tried to emulate.
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According to Pinterest, searches on the platform for “classic Parisian style” are up 373 per cent from last year. Type in the search term and you’re met with pictures of chic French influencers such as Jeanne Damas and Camille Charrière in straight-leg jeans, slouchy sweaters and dainty shoes. It’s Parisian Style 101 – I knew it. Yet the French could sniff out my attempt to pass as one of them as adeptly as they could a duty-free fragrance.
I needed to study Parisian style offline. I hoped that by incorporating its styling techniques into my daily look, I would finally be able to solidify my own personal style – something I’d been trying to nail down since my fashion intern days at the start of my career more than a dozen years ago. I also hoped, of course, to avoid sticking out like a try-hard in my new city.
Lily Collins as Emily in Emily in Paris.COURTESY OF NETFLIX/Netflix
I brought my new analytical lens to Paris’s trendiest hot spots, which would surely attract its trendiest tribe. Conveniently, I had recently moved from the cozy 5th arrondissement to the cool 11th, swapping traditional café society for charming modern coffee shops, and old-school brasseries for small-plate spots vying for a Michelin star.
I bounced between coffee shops – Coeur, a cozy epicerie-meets-café that belongs in a Nora Ephron rom-com, and the Beans on Fire, a stripped-back spot beloved for its ample outdoor seating across from a park – that attracted women who appeared to chase novelty pieces over trends.
I spotted one woman in a black, cobblestone-dusting coat and chocolate boots with long, witchy toes; another in an embroidered jacket with fur trim and sleek merlot-coloured Mary Jane shoes; and yet another who took off her oversized plaid coat to reveal a chunky gold necklace with an emerald pendant and fingers weighed down by gold rings.
At night, I’d pop into natural wine bars – such as Les Oeillets, an otherwise hole-in-the-wall if not for its quaint fresh flower arrangements, and small-plate hot spots like Le Dauphin, a scene-y, mirror-lined restaurant with stool seating – where women wore the opposite of so-called French Girl style: crop tops and knee-length skirts, long drapey coats and miniskirts.
One night as I was leaving Le Dauphin, I saw a woman walking toward me whose outfit I was immediately obsessed with. She wore an oversized olive cargo jacket, relaxed jeans and well-aged leather boots. When I got closer, I realized she was Lou Doillon, daughter of French style icon Jane Birkin.
Here’s what I learned: Yes, French girls wear stereotypical French staples, but their wardrobes are also peppered with unpredictable pieces. They understand that authentic style comes from collecting items that represent who they are, and that these pieces look well-loved, like they’ve been hanging in their closets (and maybe their mothers’ closets) for decades. An outfit that’s fresh out of the shopping bag? About as unappetizing to a French person as œufs brouillés with a side of ketchup. Repetition is how style is formed. A personal uniform is the goal.
Case in point: Former Vogue Paris editor-in-chief Carine Roitfeld (rumoured to be the style inspiration behind Emily in Paris’s Sylvie) is known for her pencil skirts and stilettos. Journalist and influencer Jennifer Neyt dresses almost exclusively in rainbow-coloured maxi dresses. And current Vogue France editor Claire Thomson-Jonville maintains a pair of denim cut-offs in her rotation. While the hero pieces – the piece that completes a look – themselves aren’t inherently French, their repetition and worn-in feel is.
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Since moving to Paris, I’ve been inspired to change my shopping habits. Instead of beelining for trendy pieces, I look for styles I’m naturally drawn to. After dropping US$400 on a pair of cool-kid Staud boots before moving here, I realized I’m not actually a pointy-toe boot person. I prefer a rounded toe, so I picked up a couple of pairs by European brand By Far, which have injected my daily outfits with a delightful seventies feel.
Similarly, I’m uncomfortable in overly structured coats with bold shoulders, so I marched my trendy Sandro sale find to the retoucherie to have the shoulder pads removed. I still buy the odd staple from popular French stores, such as high-waisted flared jeans from Rouje or cropped boxy sweaters from Loulou de Saison. But my favourite pieces, pieces that feel the most like me, are second-hand finds, such as a white summer dress by Chloé that forms a whimsical silhouette with the slightest breeze, and a delicate rose chiffon blouse that makes me feel like one of Rachel Zoe’s early-2000s boho-chic disciples.
Turns out, my most stylish self emerges not from seeking inspiration from influencers but from looking inward and finding pieces that reveal who I am.
“Bonjour, madam,” is the only greeting I get at boulangeries these days.
“Je vais prendre un croissant, s’il vous plaît,” I reply. I take off my dusty pink leather gloves and dig for my wallet in my Chloé Paddington bag – a piece I scored second-hand to make my 17-year-old self’s dream come true. I look up, feeling confident.
“Okay, that will be €1.30.”
My French accent still needs a little work.