An invitation to a New Year’s Eve party in the City of Lights, hosted by a pastry chef, featuring a Moroccan master serving up couscous...who would say non? Nick and I had already spent a week in Paris, mostly eating and walking, looking and shopping. My birthday: lunch at fabled Bofinger; dinner at Mon Viel Ami (thanks, Nick.) Miriam arrived in time for an end-of-year nosh with us at Le Comptoir (Nick and I had also been there a few days earlier.) And failing to find a suitable fireplace, I’d tossed my annual Dec. 31 list of resentments into the cold and dark waters of the Seine, hoping they’d drift away and not enter the new year with me. The party at Dorie and Michael’s was warm and sophisticated, the food memorable, the conversation stimulating. And as midnight approached, we walked to the nearby Pont des Arts to watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle in the distance, marking the stroke of midnight and signaling the sparklers all around us to light up. Everyone was happy. Happier still those of us who headed back to the party for the Pierre Hermé Ispahan-inspired dessert Dorie had prepared -- lychee and raspberry ice creams, candied rose petals, lavender marshmallows, plus financiers and teensy madeleines. Best New Year’s ever.