Paris, My Sweet

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 by Amy Thomas

  Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Jennifer K. Beal Davis

  Map illustrations © Gary Hovland

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over a period of years. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been re-created.

  Published by Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thomas, Amy

  Paris, my sweet : a love letter in madeleines, chocolate, and croissants / Amy Thomas.

  p. cm.

  (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Pastry--France--Paris--Guidebooks. 2. Paris (France)—Guidebooks. I. Title.

  TX773.T494 2012

  641.86’50944361—dc23

  2011042786

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Prelude: Le Tour du Chocolat

  Chapter 1: A Whole New Batch of Bonbons

  Chapter 2: Cupcakes—The Comfort of Home

  Chapter 3: Stick-to-Your-Teeth Hot Cocoa

  Chapter 4: Bonding Over French Viennoiseries

  Chapter 5: The Big Apple Does Macarons

  Chapter 6: Crumbling Over Perfection

  Chapter 7: Cakes to be Loved and Cherished

  Chapter 8: A Good Chocolate Chip Cookie Is Hard to Find

  Chapter 9: The Ecstasy of Madeleines and Muffins

  Chapter 10: Carrot Cake Is the New Banana Cake

  Chapter 11: Resurrection Comes from Baba au Rhum

  Chapter 12: French Toast or Pain Perdu, That Is the Question

  Chapter 13: One of Life’s Best Surprises: The Baker’s Dozen

  List of Bakeries

  About the Author

  Paris Map

  NYC Map

  Back Cover

  To my dear family and friends in the States, who always supported me and enthused about my life abroad, but lured me back with their love.

  To my new friends in Paris, who kept me sane and made the experience richer than ever expected.

  To everyone who shared my adventure on the blog, cheering me on, offering support, and writing to me over the years. Your words meant more than you’ll ever know.

  To all the brilliant bakers, pâtissiers, and chocolatiers who took the time to share their stories and indulge my curiosity.

  To Jessica Papin and Shana Drehs, who, through a special confluence of forces, made sure this book happened.

  And to Allyson and Fred, without whom there would never have been a story to tell.

  Merci.

  “Nine of every ten persons say they love chocolate. The tenth lies.”

  —Anthelme Brillat-Savrin

  “And I have the firm belief in this now, not only in terms of my own experience but in knowing about the experience of others, that when you follow your bliss, doors will open where you would not have thought there were going to be doors and where there wouldn’t be a door for anybody else.

  If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track, which has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living.”

  —Joseph Campbell

  “Your good friend has just taken a piece of cake out of the garbage and eaten it. You will probably need this information when you check me into the Betty Crocker Clinic.”

  —Miranda to Carrie on Sex and the City

  Some names have been changed to protect people’s privacy.

  I guess you could say my story began with a bicycle and some bonbons. At the time, it just seemed like a fun summer vacation: it was 2008, and I did an apartment swap with someone in Paris. I had already visited earlier that year, but what can I say? When the invitation to spend time in the City of Light (and Dark Chocolate) comes knocking, my first response is “pourquoi pas?”

  I’ve just always been one of those girls. I spent a college semester in Paris, and it was then I fell in love with the city’s beauty and grace—and Nutella street crepes. When I returned to the States, I wore silk scarves and a black beret; the only thing missing from my clichéd uniform were the Gauloises cigarettes.

  I binged on French films, schooling myself in nouvelle vague directors, falling especially hard for Eric Rohmer, before contemporary movies like The City of Lost Children and Amélie seduced me. I studied the Lost Generation, reading Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Janet Flanner, and built a mini-library so I’d never be far from Paris. I had books about cats in Paris, dogs in Paris, expats in Paris; Parisian interiors, Parisian gardens, and Parisian cuisine, organized by neighborhood; bistros of Paris, pâtisseries of Paris, and shopping in Paris. I became a regular at a café in my neighborhood in San Francisco simply because it served café au lait in little bowls instead of mugs, and I had more Eiffel Tower tchotchkes than I am comfortable admitting.

  I was just another Francophile, like you. Until that summer of 2008.

  That trip was the first time I was in Paris during the summer, and it was absolutely amazing. I loved that it was light out until after 10:00 p.m., giving me several extra hours to roam back-alley streets and sit by the Seine. I was excited to discover new neighborhoods like Bercy and Canal Saint-Martin and new “bistronomy” restaurants like Le Verre Volé and Le Comptoir du Relais. I got sucked into the semi-annual sales, les soldes, and hooked on Vélib’s, the public bike-sharing system.

  And then there were all the chocolatiers.

  By that time, I was just as obsessed with sweets as I was Paris. I had a column in Metro newspaper called “Sweet Freak” and a blog by the same name. I knew every bakery, dessert bar, gelateria, tea salon, and chocolatier in New York City. When I traveled, I built my itinerary around a town’s must-visit sweet spots.

  So naturally during that week in Paris, I researched the city’s best chocolatiers, mapped out a circuit, and then Vélib’ed between eight of them. It was exhilarating and exhausting, not to mention decadent. It was a chocoholic’s dream ride. I wrote about my Tour du Chocolat for the New York Times, and it went on to become a top-ten travel story for the year. As I was secretly plotting a way to spend more time eating chocolate in Paris, the in-house recruiter of the ad agency where I worked casually walked into my office one day and asked if I wanted to move to Paris. I was getting transferred to write copy for the iconic fashion label Louis Vuitton. It all happened so suddenly, and seemed so magical, that I had to ask: was Paris my destiny or sheer force of will?

  I guess it goes to show that you just never know where life will take you. You search for answers. You wonder what it all means. You stumble, and you soar. And, if you’re lucky, you make it to Paris for a while. Here’s what happened when I did.

  Can one question change your life? I’m willing to bet a twenty-five-piece box of Jean-Paul Hévin bonbons on it.

  In the fall of 2008, I was sitting in my office, living what I considered to be a pretty great life. I was single, owned a cute apartment in the East Village, and I was braving New York’s dating scene. I had the best friends in the world and a jam-packed social calen
dar. I enjoyed my job as an advertising copywriter. But what I really loved were my moonlighting dalliances: exploring bakeries, dessert bars, gelaterias, and chocolate boutiques and documenting my delicious discoveries for my “Sweet Freak” blog and Metro newspaper column, along with other local magazines and newspapers. You could say my life was good: easy, fun, comfortable.

  I was enjoying my afternoon bonbon (a piece of 78 percent dark chocolate, hand-delivered by my boss who had brought it back from a business trip to Germany; it had these lovely little bits of cocoa that added a nice semi-crunchy texture to the sharp flavor). I was definitely coasting. My creative directors at Ogilvy & Mather, the agency where I worked, always made sure I wasn’t overloaded. Which was a good thing since my best friend, AJ, and I were often in the habit of lingering over kir royales at Keith McNally’s fabulous Meatpacking District bistro, Pastis, until 2:00 a.m. On that particular autumn day, I was wondering if Rafaa, the Romanian gazillionaire I had met the night before, was going to call when Allyson, the agency’s in-house recruiter, walked into my office.

  “What do you think about Paris?” she asked, pausing in the doorway to adjust her Ugg boot. I was surprised to see her. I had been with Ogilvy for two years, so there was rarely a reason for her to come into my office. I put the chocolate aside—already looking forward to getting back to its thin, almost-bitter bite later—and gave her my full attention.

  “Why, are you going over for vacation?” I asked, her visit suddenly making sense. A few months prior, I had spent a week in Paris, touring the best chocolatiers on the city’s Vélib’s—three-speed bicycles stationed all over the city that, for just a euro a day, were there for the taking and leaving. It was genius because it not only allowed me to hit up multiple chocolatiers each day, but also kept my annihilation of the bonbons from going straight to my ass. After my return, three colleagues who were planning trips to Paris had asked me for my must-eat-sweets itinerary. I thought Allyson might be a sweet freak too.

  “No,” she said, brushing her bangs out of her eyes, still all nonchalant as she took a seat in front of me. “Well, actually, they’re looking for an English-speaking writer in the Paris office.” Pause. Our eyes locked. “I thought of you.” We both started to smile. “On the Louis Vuitton account,” she finished dramatically.

  I spun myself around in my Aeron chair and laughed. “What? They’re looking for an English-speaking writer in Paris? To work on Louis Vuitton? And you’re asking me?” That elicited three nods from Allyson, and suddenly my life was changing.

  The next few months were a blur of interviews, portfolio reviews, negotiations, and paperwork. They were also an emotional roller coaster. Of course I wanted to go live in Paris and work with one of the best fashion houses in the world. What Louboutin-loving, Coco-worshipping, macaron addict wouldn’t? But what about my cute East Village co-op that my dad, an interior designer, and I had just finished decorating? What about my New York-based freelance network? And my “Sweet Freak” column? What about my circle of friends who, after having graduated from our roaring twenties to our (more or less) refined thirties, were now my modern family? And my crazy black tabby cat, Milo? What about him? Would I have to leave him behind, or could I get a French work visa pour deux?

  As I waited forever for an official offer—a little preview of the maddeningly slow pace in Paris—my enthusiasm ebbed and flowed. When I wasn’t mentally plotting shopping sprees in the Haut Marais or sunset picnics in the Jardin du Luxembourg, I was hoping the whole thing would fall apart. That way, I wouldn’t have to make a decision at all and I could stay in New York, not because I was too chicken to leave, but because circumstances beyond my control kept me there. I read the same ambivalence in my friends’ faces. Every time I told a close friend—for, being slightly superstitious, I had been guarding the potential move to Paris from most people in case it fell through—I felt a pang as I watched their face cycle through the emotions: shock, awe, thrill, disbelief, despondence, acceptance, and, finally, enthusiasm.

  Although, when I told Rachel Zoe Insler, the chocolatier who had just opened a chocolate boutique in my neighborhood, Bespoke Chocolates, her face immediately shone with envy.

  The first time I bit into one of Rachel’s truffles, I was instantly smitten. But the first time I met her, I was charmed. She’s got the smarts and talent of a chocolatier trained in London, but the cool, down-to-earth vibe of someone who can cop to loving Tasti D-Lite frozen dessert. How could someone who produces such exquisite specimens of chocolate be so…ordinary? I wondered. Every time I visited her chocolate shop, tucked in a hidden alley off First Street, she’d be wearing yoga pants and clogs, hair pulled back in a bandana, Jack Johnson playing on iTunes. Shortly after she opened her boutique, we had bonded by sharing our childhood sweets obsessions: hers, Baskin-Robbins bubble gum ice cream, and mine, cream-filled Hostess CupCakes. So ordinary.

  Rachel had lived in the East Village for years—the only thing that gave her edge. Or so I thought, until I learned about her European training and tasted her amazing chocolates. “Here,” she said on one of my early visits, handing me a 70 percent Colombian dark chocolate truffle. “Let’s start simple.”

  It was impossibly creamy, a real melt-in-your-mouth gem. “Good grief, that’s amazing, Rachel.” She smiled and nodded in agreement. I guess she knew she had a hopeless devotee on her hands. She indulged my insatiability and curiosity by feeding me new flavors on every subsequent visit.

  “Oh, that’s a good one,” I responded to the zingy and aromatic Southampton tea truffle, picking up on hints of apricot in the Ceylon tea. “Heaven,” I moaned, gripping the marble countertop where she mixed and tempered her bonbons, after tasting the strawberry balsamic truffle, made with strawberry purée, eight-year-old La Vecchia Dispensa Italian balsamic vinegar, and 66 percent dark chocolate, which was then dusted with freeze-dried strawberry powder.

  It wasn’t until I knew for certain that I was trading the East Village for the Right Bank that I sampled Rachel’s masterpiece: her signature pretzel-covered, sea-salted caramel that had crackly, salty pretzel bits coating the 66 percent cocoa shell and creamy caramel center. “Pop the whole thing in your mouth since it’s really liquidy caramel inside,” she instructed. I obliged, her eager guinea pig. Sweet-salty had by then become a really popular combination, practiced by everyone from fellow chocolatier Rhonda Kave, who had a small shop, Roni-Sue, in the Lower East Side’s Essex Street Market, to Pichet Ong, who had once been Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s pastry chef and had gone on to open a succession of bakeries and dessert bars downtown. But Rachel’s salty-sweet, one-two punch was absolutely sublime.

  “It’s the caramel,” I gushed. “The texture. It sort of blends both extremes into a big gooey mess of deliciousness that melts on your tongue.” She laughed at my professional explanation. “Do you think they have anything like this in Paris?” I asked, licking flicks of caramel left on my fingertips.

  “It’s probably a little too messy for the French.”

  “True,” I said, while Rachel kindly pointed to her chin, indicating to me that I had a string of caramel there. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it,” I continued, dotting my face clean. “It’s going to be hard being so prim and proper all the time.”

  She was looking at me, slightly confused. “What are you talking about?”

  So I shared my back-and-forth, wait-and-see drama of the past several months, and she started buzzing with excitement. “Oh my god, that’s incredible! You have to promise you’ll sample every last chocolate in Paris,” she said. “No, every last chocolate in France. In Europe!” she laughed. Deal, I told her. Fifteen minutes later I said good-bye, buoyed by her enthusiasm and my box of six assorted bonbons.

  When I shared the news with AJ, my best friend of twenty-five years, that I had finally received a formal offer, it was a whole different story. I could barely even look at her.

  “Seriously?” she choked, both on my news and on a cupcake crumb.


  “I know, can you believe it?” We were sitting on a bench outside Billy’s Bakery, a Magnolia Bakery spin-off (or rip-off, depending whom you asked, seeing as it was started by an ex-employee of the famed West Village bakery and had the same retro vibe and menu going on, right down to the ratio of Nilla Wafers in the giant vats of creamy banana pudding). The advantage of Billy’s was that the Sex and the City tour buses didn’t stop here, so we weren’t confronted with our embarrassing Jersey alter egos. It was also right around the corner from AJ’s Chelsea walk-up. We often treated ourselves to a Sunday sweet, either doing new recon for my “Sweet Freak” column or indulging at one of our old faithfuls: City Bakery or here at Billy’s. It was our time to catch up on the week and recount the previous night’s antics if we had been brave or desperate enough to take on Manhattan’s Saturday night scene.

  Every time we were at Billy’s, AJ got the banana cupcake with cream cheese frosting, a house specialty. I usually felt it my duty to try something new—like the Hello Dolly, a graham-cracker-crusted bar, layered with a tooth-achingly sweet mélange of chocolate chips, pecans, butterscotch, and coconut, perhaps a big old slice of German chocolate cake, or just a modest sugar-dusted snickerdoodle. But today—out of alliance or nervousness, I wasn’t sure—I had also ordered a banana cupcake: a wise choice, as it was especially spongy and fresh. I was licking the frosting off my fingertips, watching the stream of yellow cabs zooming down Ninth Avenue, while AJ quietly contemplated my news.

  “Wow. No.” She sat gazing down at her empty cupcake wrapper, the nutty cake and creamy frosting long gone. Of course I had told her months ago they were looking for writers in Paris and that I was the lead candidate. She had been privy to the blow-by-blow interviewing, negotiating, contract drafting, and waiting over the past few months. But it had taken so long, I don’t think either of us thought an official offer letter would ever come through and the move would actually happen.