Paris, My Sweet (7 page)

“You can never have too much butt-heeeer!” He was doing his impression of Julia Child cooking with Jacques Pepin. The two masters had famously fun banter on their PBS series,
Julia
and
Jacques
Cooking
at
Home
, and it never failed to make Mom and Bob roll with laughter when they recalled, and imitated, the pair's strange and charming dynamics. They loved their cooking shows.

“Yeah, but I'm talking about the other Jacques,” my mom said, rolling her eyes, despite her amusement.

“I knnnoooooow,” Bob said, not giving up. A waitress, who still looked bedraggled in her formal black dress and white apron, briskly walked by and shot us a look of disapproval. But even I was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “But I like talking about…the…butt-heeeer!”

While Bob continued amusing himself with his ridiculous Julia Child impersonations, Mom and I started reminiscing about “the other” Jacques: Jacques Torres.

We had made the pilgrimage to Jacques Torres's original boutique in the industrial Brooklyn neighborhood DUMBO years ago. Come to think of it, our adventures that week in Paris weren't much different than the ones we had shared in New York. We'd basically build an itinerary around a couple sweet spots that were on our radar—either destinations Mom had heard about on the Food Network or new bakeries I wanted to check out for my “Sweet Freak” column. Past explorations had brought us to Doughnut Plant on the Lower East Side for square yeast doughnuts glazed with peanut butter and filled with blackberry jam. We'd gone to Crumbs for those five-hundred-calorie, candy-covered cupcakes. And on the Upper West Side, we'd visited Alice's Tea Cup for the miraculously moist banana-butterscotch scones. But Mom and Bob were as big of chocoholics as I was, and the journey to Jacques Torres was memorable for more reason than one.

DUMBO, Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, wasn't the typical neighborhood I took them to. Ordinarily, we stayed within the comfy confines of New York's well-lit and scrubbed areas: Central Park, Soho, Grand Central. In Soho, the cobblestone streets are filled with moneyed European tourists. In DUMBO, they're littered with discarded vodka bottles and dog poop. Uptown, the limestone townhouses glow, spick-andspan. Here, a beautiful yet abandoned brick warehouse was splattered with graffiti and vomit. The subway rattled overhead, trains going to and fro on the Manhattan Bridge, and there was nary a soul about. Mom and Bob played it cool, but I think we all breathed a little easier once we entered Jacques's chocolate den.

Jacques is French and, at the age of twenty-six, was actually the youngest chef to win the prestigious Meilleur Ouvrier de France award, the highest honor possible in French pastry. He then came over to the United States, where he worked as a pastry chef at the Ritz in Rancho Mirage, California, and Atlanta, Georgia. Then he really made a name for himself as executive pastry chef of the highly acclaimed New York restaurant Le Cirque, which has also helped launch the careers of Daniel Boulud, David Bouley, Bill Telepan, and many others. Somewhere along the way, Jacques picked up the very American nickname Mr. Chocolate, and he finally realized his dream of opening his own chocolate business in 2000—the boutique where we found ourselves on that cold but sunny winter day.

After the barren landscape outside, it was like walking into a warm, welcoming womb—one that envelops you in the scent of chocolate and encourages you to go ahead, indulge!
Life
is
short. Eat dessert first!
Exposed brick walls and tin ceilings hinted at the space's earlier life as a warehouse, but its present incarnation was bright and modern. Shelves were jam-packed with orange and brown packaged treats: chocolate-covered Cheerios, chocolate-covered cornflakes, chocolate-covered raisins and pretzels and espresso beans. Chocolate malt balls, chocolate almonds, and giant 2.2-pound “Big Daddy” chocolate blocks. There was caramel corn, peanut brittle, mudslide cookie mixes, and tins of chocolate shavings so you could try replicating Jacques's über-rich hot chocolate at home—anything the choco-obsessed could dream was crammed in the small space.

An L-shaped counter had all manner of fresh, handcrafted temptations: a spread of individual bonbons with cheeky names like Wicked Fun (chocolate ganache with ancho and chipotle chilies), Love Bug (key lime ganache enveloped in white chocolate), and Ménage à Trois (a mystery blend of three ingredients). Platters of double chocolate chip cookies and fudgy brownies. And there were his buttery croissants and
pain au chocolat
, which duked it out in popularity with the French bakery across the street, Almondine.

But we had come for the cocoa, so we got in line—for despite the empty streets outside, plenty of tourists, many of them European, had also found their way from Manhattan's crowded streets to Mr. Chocolate. Bob managed to snag one of only two marble-topped café tables wedged in the tiny retail space, while Mom and I ordered three steamed cocoas and brought them to the table. The paper cups they were served in didn't do the rich drinks justice. The cocoa was worthy of France's finest porcelain cups and saucers. It was creamy, thick, and,
oui
, chocolaty. At the time, we agreed it was some of the best hot chocolate we'd ever tasted. Who knew that just a few years later, the three of us would be sipping incredibly decadent hot chocolate again, thousands of miles away in Paris?

Warmed by Angelina's divine
chocolat
chaud
, fatigued from the massive museum visit and days of touring Paris, we sat in contented silence. I replayed Mom and Bob's banter from throughout the week, which wasn't exactly as witty as Jacques and Julia's, but had its own sincerity and charm.

“I didn't know there were so many things you could do with puff pastry.”

“I didn't know there were so many things you could do with whipped cream.”

“I don't think I've ever taken a picture of my dessert before.”

“I don't want this to end.”

I knew it had been a successful visit. It wasn't just that Mom and Bob had been atop the Eiffel Tower at night or lit candles at Notre Dame. It wasn't just being able to finally say they'd visited the Louvre or eaten a real French baguette. It wasn't even the rich cocoa or moist, crumbly cakes or flaky
viennoiserie
that made them sigh in disbelief. Well, actually, maybe it was those things—if only a little bit.

But sitting in that historic tea salon, at once regal and relaxed, I knew they now understood my love for Paris and why I'd had to come back to it. Each sip and every bite we shared on their visit was an introduction to my new life. I was revealing a part of myself that I could never convey in words. It was bittersweet for all of us there at Angelina. They knew I intended to stay in Paris for a while. But while I may have moved thousands of miles away, at that moment, I felt closer to home than ever.

After Mom and Bob's visit, the social front picked up. The girls came and we shared four fabulous days and nights of eating our hearts out, pouring our souls out, and laughing our heads off. We luxuriated in the spring sunshine at the Jardin du Luxenbourg, toured the Seine from a boat at twilight, and sat in infinite cafés, comparing
café crèmes
and croissants, all the while catching each other up on our lives. And while I had fared pretty poorly on the restaurant front—not yet knowing the best spots or realizing that you absolutely must have reservations in Paris; walk-ins are rarely accepted—we'd managed at least one magical meal at Chez Janou, a Provençal bistro in the Marais.

After spending hours exploring the historic quartier, pausing only once from shopping to sit on the grass in the perfectly symmetrical park, Place de Vosges, we walked north and stumbled into this cute and colorful restaurant as the lunch rush was dying down. Sitting at a table in the back, we grinned at each other, finally experiencing that “ahh, yes,
this
is the meal we've been waiting for” feeling.

First came the rustic country bread with an almost tart sourdough flavor that was served with a bottle of freshly pressed olive oil and a small dish of pungent whole olives. We savored these southern beauties and sipped rosé while strategizing what to choose from the menu—from ratatouille to stuffed peppers to sea bass grilled with pesto, you could just imagine the bountiful flavors that lay ahead. I ended up ordering
brandade
de
morue
, a traditional dish from the south of France of salt cod pureed to the consistency of instant mashed potatoes and baked to rich, buttery perfection in a terrine—it was totally new to my taste buds and utterly delicious. We were all in love with our meals and didn't even save room for dessert, but, even so, there was something so decadent, and so perfect, about the five of us sitting there at four o'clock in the afternoon with full bellies and wine buzzes.

But the problem with having visitors, I discovered, was the deafening silence after they left. I had been in Paris for several months now and was accustomed to taking countless solo strolls, feeling pangs of envy as I walked by the cafés with their jam-packed terraces of cavorting friends and no way of breaking in. But when the girls returned to the States, the void they left was giant. Thankfully though, I was beginning to make new friends on this side of the Atlantic.

Yummy…

…A hot handmade bread.

…A super flaky apple turnover fulled with real fruits.

…The surprising flavor of cumin in an olive bread.

Sounds good for you?

For someone who had studied French in high school and college, in groups and one-on-one, via cassettes and with workbooks, and yet never exceeded a third-grader's proficiency, I had grossly underestimated how long it would take me to pick up the language. Even Josephine's best efforts were taking eons to sink in.

But it had never even crossed my mind that it might also take forever to meet people. Unlike my pathetic linguistic skills, making friends had always been relatively easy for me. In addition to the girls from high school, I still have strong bonds with my college roommates and friends from San Francisco. At previous jobs, my team members and I were always chummy. Granted, it's somewhat a by-product of advertising—a young and boozy, glamorous and grueling industry where frequent happy hours and debauched bashes, interspersed with mad hours and the occasional all-nighter, provide the perfect bonding opportunities—but still, at every agency, I've walked away with at least one friend for life. Not so in Paris.

My colleagues at Ogilvy were a worldly and motley bunch. There was Pat, the Labrador-puppy-friendly Irish guy who sat next to me and always thought out loud and farted silently, and Lionel, my kilt-wearing, mohawk-shorn, French-Vietnamese art director partner who, despite his rock-and-roll looks, was so shy and soft-spoken, I felt as loud as a Texan in a ten-gallon whenever I spoke to him. My bobo (“bourgeois bohemian”) creative director, Fred, who breezed in and out of the office for frequent scooter rides across town to meet the client and even more frequent smoke breaks, was cool. But he rarely had time to pause and ask
ça va?
, much less how this foreign city and life were treating me. There were a couple of old-timers who reeked of nicotine and coffee and muttered between themselves in the corner, and a group of scruffy hipster dudes who always looked like they'd spent the night on the couch. Everyone else pretty much blended into one big, buttoned up “colleague” group. They were all nice enough. But, so far, I wasn't clicking with any of them.

Until Isabelle. Another writer on the Louis Vuitton account, she and I started a friendship on a very auspicious note.

I was sitting at my desk, the brilliant afternoon sunlight warming my back, trying to come up with a smart and clever title for the filmmaking competition we were launching for Louis Vuitton—anything but the after-school-special-ish “Destination: Inspiration” the client had suggested—when I saw a tall, thin girl with spiky blonde hair approaching. Isabelle had a free-spirited wardrobe—paisley bandanas, platform sandals, bracelets that clanked and echoed across the room—that matched her quirky beauty and brilliant smile. “Spunk” was the word that came to mind whenever we were in meetings together. She was Canadian, not French, which meant she wasn't too cool to express enthusiasm with a broad smile or wink of conspiracy. We had been making tentative steps toward friendship beyond our small Louis Vuitton team, and I knew I liked her for a reason beyond her laidback vibe.

“Bonjour, Amy,” she spoke slowly, tentatively, hovering in the pool of sunlight. She placed a sheet of paper on my desk and pointed to the list of names with scribbled food items next to them.
Françoise, croissants; Veronique, jus de fruits; Gurvan, baguette
. She was organizing a
petit
dej
—a potluck breakfast—for the creative department, she explained, pointing to the very official sign-up sheet. “Peut-être tu peux apporter du brioche, ou Nutella ou quelque-chose?” she asked, wondering what I could contribute. I wasn't exactly sure what this breakfast business was about; it seemed much more casual than I was accustomed to at the office. But my spirits perked right up at the thought of sweet, doughy breads and thick hazelnut spreads.

“Absolutement!” I said, already calculating that the deliciousness would begin in about, oh, eighteen or nineteen hours. “Bonne idée.” I smiled at her before spelling out my name, pausing, and writing pain au chocolat next to it. “J'apporte combien, tu pense?” I asked in my embarrassingly primitive French. “Douze? Quinze?” Should I bring twelve or fifteen?

Her green eyes widened. “Non, non. Tout le monde apporte quelque-chose, donc, tu pourrais apporter juste cinq ou six. Il y aura beaucoup!” Duh. How un-French. My first instinct was to load up the table with an overabundance of food but she was telling me just five or six would do. Of course the Frenchies would be more restrained. But still, the American side of my brain rationalized, bringing only a half dozen pastries to my first office gathering? Didn't that seem sort of chintzy? I mentally noted to bring ten.

My demeanor must have changed as I was considering the vast quantities of pain au chocolat that were in my future.

“Tu aimes des viennoiserie?” Isabelle asked, with a knowing smile, if I liked pastry. This was my first dose of office small talk, I realized.

“Connais-tu des bons
boulangeries
à Paris?” And, if I understood her correctly, I loved the topic of our conversation: pastries and bakeries.

Of course I had already mentally been going through my pâtisserie spreadsheet, thinking this breakfast would be the perfect occasion to try one of the
grandes
classiques
like Lenôtre or Fauchon. What a way to make an impression, I thought, to bring some of the finest pastries in Paris. But there was also a small neighborhood
boulangerie
near the office whose rich, buttery smells emanating from the back door made my stomach rumble each morning. A modest but delicious score would be just as appreciated.

“Oui,” I confessed. “J'adore ven-ny…vien-wah…ven-iseries,” I stuttered.
Merde
, why did this beautiful and important word that encompassed the whole family of cottony soft breakfast pastries—classic croissants,
pain au chocolat,
chausson aux pommes
—have to be so hard to wrap my tongue around?

“Vee-en-wah-sir-ie,” Isabelle sounded it out, as patient and good-natured as a kindergarten teacher.

“Vien-y…ven-iseries,” I tried again. We both laughed. Before moving on with her sign-up duties, Isabelle must have sensed that she had a hopeless sweet freak on her hands. She emailed me later that day, giving me a new address to add to my growing list of must-try Parisian
boulangeries
:

Here is some of my favorites addresses for a happy sunday (or any other day!)

All is just per-fect at Du Pain et Des Idées

And if you don't already know Le parc de la Butte Chaumont, it's really nice, and pretty near of the bakery, so you can have a beautiful walk after a good bread time ;)

Have a good gourmet time!

…Sorry for my bad english!

Isa:)

Her email made my day. Already, I felt, she knew me well.

From that afternoon on, Isabelle—Isa—and I were bona fide
amies
. After the
petit
dej
, she organized picnics at Jardin de Luxembourg, with spreads of couscous salads, fluffed with exotic North African spices; sliced cantaloupe and sweet strawberries, speared on skewers; wheels of ripe Camembert and wedges of buttery Brie that were spackled on fresh, crunchy baguettes. She arranged visits to subterranean jazz clubs where natty couples twirled in the dark. And during office hours, we made a point of counseling each other in language—she wanting to practice English as much as I needed to keep learning French—resulting in classic Franglais conversations.