That enormous frosted cake of a building is the Palais Garnier — the Paris Opera. Gold statues on the roof, marble columns, busts of composers across the front. It's the most expensive-looking building in a city that specializes in expensive-looking buildings.
In eighteen sixty, the Emperor announced a competition to design it. A hundred and seventy-one architects entered. The winner was Charles Garnier — say it Gar-nee-AY — a thirty-five-year-old nobody. Broke, unknown, the son of a blacksmith. In the first round of judging he came FIFTH. In the final round, the jury picked him unanimously. The most famous names in French architecture lost the biggest commission of the century to a kid nobody had heard of.
And the kid had opinions. When the Empress Eugénie looked at his design, she sniffed, what IS this style? It's not Greek, it's not Louis the Sixteenth. Garnier answered her to her face. "It is Napoleon the Third, Madame. And you complain." Telling an empress that her taste was beh
ind the times, at a design review, for her husband's opera house. He kept the job anyway.
Then the ground tried to kill the project. When workers dug the foundations, they hit groundwater, and it would not stop coming. Eight steam pumps ran day and night for months, and the site stayed a swamp. So Garnier stopped fighting the water and gave it a room. He built a huge sealed cistern under the buil






