Paris, My Sweet (20 page)

Melissa burst out laughing. “Beards?! What are you talking about?”

“It's true, it's one of the symptoms in severe cases!”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing. This is serious. But I think the last thing you should be worrying about is a beard. There's nothing on your chin except adorable peach fuzz.” She reached out and cupped my face. I loved how affectionate she was. We were sitting in her sun-filled living room that overlooked Canal Saint-Martin, sans makeup, sans pretense. As our friendship had developed over the months, an easy intimacy enveloped us that made hanging out at home as comfortable as if I were with one of my girls back home. We didn't need the distraction of a bustling bobo scene or the excuse of a new bar opening to get together. Listening to the bongos from the street urchins echoing across the waterway, seeing the chestnut trees swaying in the breeze outside her window, I was so grateful to have someone I could count on, heart and soul, in Paris.

“I don't think you're going to grow a beard, bunny. But I do think you're going to have kids. I just have a feeling that you're going to meet someone and be a mother. I really, really see that for you. I know it's not my lot in life, and I am fine with that, but I do think it'll happen for you.”

“Really?” I asked imploringly, as if she were looking into a crystal ball and really could tell what my future held. I hadn't been able to figure it out all those years. Maybe Mel could.

“I know you have a referral—and, P.S., we don't even know what your situation is yet, this could just be a blip—but I can give you the name of one of the best fertility experts in the city, just so you have it.”

I had so many questions and doubts, so much uncertainty and frustration about what was going on with my body. Infertility? Babies? My future?
Mon
dieu
. But having a friend to lean on made me feel invincible, if only fleetingly. The way a good AJ pep talk could. My appointment with the endocrinologist was tomorrow, and for the first time in two long weeks of waiting, I felt a sliver of optimism. I had Mel on my side. I could do this.

I should have known better. By that time, I had been living in Paris for nearly nine months. I was intimately familiar with their all-business demeanor. Their eye-rolling and shoulder shrugging; their
meh
attitudes. So what did I expect, that this specialist I was sent to see would dispense hugs and compassion along with her prognosis?

There I was the next day, shivering in yet another gown, on yet another examination table, in a different part of town. Once again, I was subjected to a naked weigh-in and recital of my family's health history. My fingernails were blue, and my body was covered in goose bumps by the time we finally got to my current issues and symptoms. Despite my chills, my palms were collecting pools of sweat in my lap. I swallowed a lump of anxiety in my throat, but I managed to keep the tears in check. As I waited for the Specialist's expert opinion, I could get no read from her. I was dying. I felt like my whole biological future was in the hands of this heavy-set, beautifully coiffed, blank-faced endocrinologist.

“You know what you need to do?” she finally asked, her words coming like maddening drops in a bucket as opposed to Dr. Tippy's rat-a-tat machine gunfire. I shook my head and swallowed again. “Profiter d'être à Paris.” She delivered this simple recommendation with complete and utter confidence.

“Eh, excusez-moi?”

“Profiter d'être à Paris,” she looked at me and then repeated it yet again with more emphasis. “
Profiter
d'être à Paris!”
Okay, where was the hidden camera? This was a joke, right? From what I understood, I was being treated for ovarian cysts and had iffy fertility prospects, and she was telling me to simply benefit from being in Paris? I wanted a hardcore plan of action. I wanted a course of treatment. I wanted drugs! After all, what could going to the theater and opera do for my ovaries?

If I were in New York, I knew I would be getting all kinds of prescriptions and advice. But the Specialist—in typical French fashion—shrugged the whole thing off. So, my internal stressing about living in a new country and culture has caused my system to go a little nutty?
C'est normal.
So my ovaries were temporarily withholding my eggs?
Pas
grave
. So I was thirty-seven?
Peu
import.
I just needed to relax.

The oral contraceptives Dr. Tippy had prescribed—and this time I was taking them—were meant to trick my system into “working” again and eventually make those cysts go away. I was still young and lively. Now, if I could just enjoy being there—see some Balanchine, eat some foie gras, do what so many people around the world would kill to do in my position—well, that would make me all better! I could have a healthy body and pump out some healthy babies.
Pourquoi
pas? Why not?

My feet limply dangled over the examination table as I waited for her real advice—a prescription, the name of another specialist, even some Eastern herbs or meditation techniques, anything tangible that I could walk away with to make me feel in control of the situation. But I was waiting for nothing. The Specialist rose from her desk, pushed a curl behind her ear, and wished me
bonne
journée
.

As I pulled on my jeans—damn,
definitely
tighter than they used to be—exhaustion from these past couple weeks of emotional roller-coasting set in. A storm of feelings hit me at once: irritation, disbelief, fear, sadness, regret. And yet I found myself giggling. This long, drawn-out process capped off by the indifference of the Specialist was utterly absurd. And par for the course in Paris.
Vive
la
France!

I found myself wandering aimlessly through the twelfth arrondissement after my appointment, muttering to myself. That's it! Just enjoy being in Paris! Easy-breezy! No need to worry about your biological clock, mademoiselle—you might as well be
twenty-seven
!

But as I passed by the green awning of Blé Sucré, Fabrice Le Bourdat's pâtisserie on Square Trousseau, something clicked. If Marcel Proust, the French literary genius, had famously had an awakening biting into a plump little teacake known as the madeleine, maybe I could have a similarly transporting experience? If not an involuntary memory, perhaps an involuntary attitude adjustment? Fabrice's citrus-glazed madeleines were reputedly the best in the city. Could one of his special sponge cakes be the key to my moving forward? I knew I couldn't turn back the hands of time, but might something be triggered, releasing my pent-up hormones, flooding me with fertility, setting my body back in equilibrium? Could a madeleine make me better? If nothing else, I knew it would at least taste good. I went inside.

Considering Fabrice had been pâtissier at the five-star Bristol Hotel, which is known for its divine desserts, and, prior to that, the chic Plaza Athénée and Hotel de Martinez in Cannes, he has an extraordinarily calm and blasé perspective on baking (not unlike the Specialist's attitude had been about my ovaries). After the regal résumé building, he and his wife opened a modest bakery in 2006—the kind of neighborhood spot that everyone wants in their quartier. Every morning, and in waves throughout the day, lines stretch out the door, regulars waiting for his crunchy baguettes, flaky
viennoiserie
, and massive selection of
petits
gâteaux
. Some, like the dome-shaped Le Vollon, are so glossy, the decadent dark chocolate looks molten. Others, like the L'Aligre, are as fluffy as clouds, topped with spears of candied pineapple. Fabrice's wife, Celine, cheerfully serves the customers, and then many mingle at the pastel-colored, iron café tables in front of the bakery. Sometimes Fabrice will join them for an espresso. Indeed, nothing makes the pâtissier happier than pleasing his customers—with his baking and his friendship. In return, many Parisians insist his baguettes and pain au chocolat are the best in the city. But nary a soul will dispute that his madeleines take top honors.

These shell-shaped teacakes from the town of Commercy in northeastern France date back to the eighteenth century. Made with
génoise
batter, which relies heavily on eggs, the edges bake to a dark golden color while the rest of the cake remains a sunny yellow. They can be put away in a quick five or six bites, making it nearly impossible to not reach for a second, and a third. They're sort of similar to American muffins—if you disregard the current super-sized, candy-studded bastardized muffins that have become so popular in recent years. Although there's at least one place in New York that has held onto the simple, wholesome concept of a muffin: Thé Adoré in Greenwich Village.

Despite the French name, it's a Japanese gentleman by the name of Yukihito Yahagi who opened the two-story tearoom twenty years ago. A small crew of cute and fashionable Japanese women work there, churning out simple sandwiches, soups, and quiches. And they make fresh baked goods in the morning. True to a French salon de thé, they bake traditional pastries like almond croissants, brioche, and even madeleines. But they don't compare to the ones in Paris. While Fabrice's madeleines are moist, light, buttery, and delicious, Thé Adoré's are a titch on the dry, crumbly side—evidence that imitation may be the greatest form of flattery, but it's tough to beat a French pâtissier at his own game. And with Fabrice's thin layer of orange
glaçage
, made with freshly squeezed juice, he definitely has the winning touch.

Thé Adoré's muffins, however, are outstanding. Simple. Unpretentious. Lovely and delicious. Instead of softball-sized creations bursting with absurd mix-ins, there are only three varieties—raspberry, banana, and classic blueberry. They're baked in humble parchment paper, and are the same size that our moms ate in the '50s. They have a real do-it-yourself, made-at-home sensibility that I love.

It became a favorite escape of mine in New York: having morning coffee and a blueberry muffin—so classically American—but in a shabby-chic, French-Japanese tearoom. With dark wood tables and mismatched chairs scattered across the plank floors, the upstairs dining room felt as cozy as a cabin in the Catskills. Until you gazed out the giant picture window over 13th Street and saw all the NYU students rushing about with their yoga mats and shih tzus, and realized you were in the epicenter of New York. Still, I always found Thé Adoré romantic and peaceful. It's one of the few places in the city where you can sit with your thoughts and disappear for a while.