A letter from the Editor

I had an oyster in one hand and a coupe in the other when I first heard about The Boulevardier.

It was a chilly December night in an intimate gathering at a literary salon in Paris (not unlike those salons of yesterday for which the French are so famous). Georgette Moger, whose name is also in these pages, had just handed me an oyster shell filled with peated whiskey. I cupped it in my hand, distracted by the new combination (if you know, you know), but also more-than-a-little intrigued by what I was hearing. It seems almost ironic that I first heard about the magazine at such a gathering, because that’s exactly how The Boulevardier began nearly a century ago—among expat writers in a Paris of another time.

What struck me wasn’t just the story, but the serendipity of it all. It was, as I like to call them, one of those Paris moments. Some months prior, in the basement of Harry’s Bar, Patrick Dooley had his own Paris moment when he stumbled across an illustration referencing The Boulevardier, buried among stacks of Le Monde and other clippings. That discovery opened doors to the archives of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, and eventually to this revival you now hold in your hands.

As an American in Paris, perhaps I should have been familiar with the Paris institution that is Harry’s, but as a self-proclaimed morning person, the Paris I know is washed in early-morning light: streets so empty you can hear the click of your own heels on the cobblestones, the smell of the first baguettes of the day, the clinking of coffee cups at a café. I smiled and nodded along during this first exchange, in a delicate balancing act, both with the oyster and in the conversation, pretending I was very familiar with the differences between a Boulevardier and a Negroni (I’ll let you in on the difference: the gin is swapped for bourbon). One conversation drifted into another, until somewhere between our two versions of Paris—his nights and my mornings—this project took shape.

Nearly a century ago, Erskine Gwynne gathered his circle—Hemingway, Bromfield, Moss, and others—around The Boulevardier. The magazine ran from 1927 to 1932, and now, a magazine all but forgotten by history is running again, in 2025. A new circle has formed: Goldfarb, Braley-Palko, Harrison, Duboé. Writers, artists, photographers, and bartenders are lending their voices and visions to this issue, carrying the spirit of that original gathering forward into today.

The following is the result of many hands and countless hours: at Harry’s, at the archives in the BnF, huddled over coffees and croissant crumb-covered tables, both in Paris and around the world. Really, it’s a love letter: to the city of Paris, to hospitality, and the je ne sais quoi that keeps us coming back, year after year, decade after decade, time after time, again and again…and again.

Arthur Moss once defined a boulevardier as someone who constantly sought out fun and who made their life “a perpetual holiday.” To the Paris lovers and perpetual fun-seekers: this is for you. May you find your own Paris moment.

x Paige N. Miller