Paris, My Sweet (9 page)

We snooped around a bit more, inhaling the fermenting bread dough and peeking at the tools and equipment. Then it was time to sample the goods. Isa and I left Alexi, fatigued with his eight-hour shift coming to a close, to finish his kitchen duties while we returned to the front to choose our snacks.

Christophe Vasseur, the charming young
boulanger
behind Du Pain et Des Idées, prides himself on doing a few things and doing them extremely well. No candy-colored
gâteaux
or theatrical chocolate sculptures for him. Just honest to goodness breads, hand-crafted
viennoiserie
, and a select few seasonal tarts.

Isa and I started with a
chausson
aux
pommes
. Whereas many
boulangeries
fill these apple turnovers with jam or compote, Du Pain et Des Idées uses actual slices of fresh apples, and there's no mistaking the difference. The tender but chunky fruit was sweet and tart with a bit of bite, delicious in the summer afternoon sun. We then tore into a mind-blowingly flaky croissant. There were so many paper-thin golden layers, it looked like a sculpture. It was more exquisite than any other croissant I had seen before—crispier too, leaving a mosaic of pastry flakes scattered in our laps and down around our feet. And, saving the best for last, we tucked into
l'escargot chocolat pistache
, another lovely puff pastry creation, this one spiraling outward in the shape of a snail, like
pain aux raisins
. Except these superfine layers were piped full of pistachio
crème pâtissière
and flecks of chocolate. Everything we had was fresh, delicious, perfect.

It was a bakery and an afternoon every bit as exceptional as Isa.

Just as it takes time for friendships to develop properly, you can't rush a great croissant. It's a truism I will never be able to deny after experiencing Christophe Vasseur's pastries that day.

“Making croissants is 2 percent theory and 98 percent practice,” he told me when I tracked him down for his baking insights after that beautiful experience with Isa. He was referring to the importance of using your own hands, practicing again and again, versus relying on courses and training. And he should know. Vasseur's own apprenticeship—which he started at the age of thirty after ditching a glamorous job in fashion sales—didn't amount to more than three months. He learned everything through his own passion and tenacity.

“Lots of people said, ‘You're crazy. It will never work,'” Vasseur remembers of his early years, when he was toiling eighteen hours a day, six days a week. Nobody understood the dramatic change in his career path. But that didn't stop him. Being a baker was something he had wanted to do since he was a boy when, growing up in the French Alps, his three town bakers simultaneously inspired and tempted him with their creations. “It was always like going to a magician's shop—the way you could smell things even before opening the door. It's an environment of pure magic to me: using your hands to transform something so simple into something so good and beautiful.”

So despite everyone's skepticism, he kept at it, pursuing his life dream. He searched for and found the perfect space: a bakery that had been around for 120 years. It had also seen three bakers go bankrupt in seven years. It wasn't exactly a good omen, but the space had soul, which was all Vasseur needed. Adopting the words of French novelist Marcel Pagnol as his mantra—
I'm gonna make a bread like none other has ever tasted before and, in this bread, I will put a lot of love and friendship
—he opened his
boulangerie
in 2002.

“I didn't do it for myself, but I did it to share with people,” he explains. “Baking is more than bread, more than flour and water and yeast. It's the desire to be more human and go back to the simple things. To go back to roots.”

Vasseur makes it all sound so simple. But can the artful blending, rolling, folding, and baking of his fine and flaky croissants be easy? Sublime, yes; simple,
mais
non
.

Of those dreamy, buttery, million-layered
viennoiserie
, which have earned him legions of fans and awards from the renowned Gault et Millau and Michelin Guide, he credits his drive and that he's always been good with his hands. Of course the ingredients matter as much as the passion and technique that get poured into them. Vasseur insists on top-quality organic flour, butter, milk, and eggs whenever possible. Equally important is the time and care invested.

Whereas industrial croissants can be churned out in thirty minutes thanks to premade dough, Christophe invests thirty-four
hours
. This is because he makes his own dough from scratch and gives it time to rest and develop its aroma—or, in his words, to benefit from “the magic of fermentation.” He then takes that lovely, fragrant handmade dough, layers it with butter, folds and rolls it again and again, making way for those many fine, buttery pastry layers. Then they're cut into triangles, folded into the distinctive crescent shapes, and baked for fourteen minutes. The croissants puff, they expand, they turn golden brown in the oven. And, finally, heaven is served.

Of course I was familiar with croissants before moving to Paris. But like all Americans, the samples I had grown up on were farces: ridiculous, oversweetened commercial attempts at French finesse. To get a quality croissant, you had to really search and sample. Or have friends in the know.

At a previous advertising job in New York, my friend Mary waltzed into the agency one morning carrying two paper bags, butter weeping through the thin paper. She gathered us girls—we were a klatch of five who loyally boozed, lunched, and commiserated with each other—and revealed the otherworldly contents. Inside the first bag were five golden croissants, folding in on themselves from their warmth. The other bag held just as many precious
pain au chocolat
, also still a titch warm from the morning bake. We huddled on the couch for an impromptu breakfast and with every one of our first bites, there were waves of ecstasy.
Where
did
these
come
from?
we demanded. We flagged the token Parisian in our office, whom, of course, I had a crush on. He confirmed what we already knew to be true: these were exquisite croissants. Probably the best in the city. We were buzzing with this delicious and unexpected discovery for the rest of the day.

From then on, we all took our turns periodically bringing in bags of croissants and
pain au chocolat
from Pâtisserie Claude, the source of the buttery beauties. Going to the wee West Village bakery was part of the experience. Instead of a charming café or fancy pâtisserie you might expect of a French bakery in New York's most picturesque neighborhood, it was a shabby tin can of a place. Linoleum floors, fluorescent lights, and a few framed photographs on the wall revealed nothing of the prowess in the kitchen. And instead of a charming French baker like, say, Christophe Vasseur, Claude was cantankerous. He was a burly Frenchman who had been running the bakery for decades. He couldn't be bothered with press and didn't have time for adulation. He baked. That was it.
Ça suffit
.

But we—and scores of other cultish worshippers in the city—were hooked, evaluating what made Claude's croissants so good. There was the crisp and flaky shell that shattered when you bit into it, leaving that telltale bib of giant crumbs on your front side. And then an inside filled with light, tender layers that were slightly stretchy, but never doughy or overly chewy—the by-product of overworking the dough, I learned later from Christophe. And, of course, there was the beautiful taste of butter. Not grossly greasy, but rich and decadent. As warm as a summer day.

After sampling our
viennoiserie
at Du Pain et Des Idées, it was time to leave. It was time to say good-bye to Isa.

I gave a farewell hug to Alexi at the bakery's back door, and then Isa and I walked toward the Métro on the chaotic Place de la République, a giant, leafy square that has more hobos and rowdy teenagers than magnificent monuments and fountains like Place de la Concorde on the other side of town. As we strolled, old men on café terraces were agog at Isa's long legs, which she dared to bare in short shorts in the summer sun. Though she had been my first French friend, her brazenness in a land of conformity reminded me that Isa, too, was
une
étrangère
. She had come to Paris to live her dream. And now she was leaving to embrace a new one.

We double-kissed good-bye—now a natural gesture to me—and then held each other in a tight hug, which made me ache again for my friends back home and the one I was losing now. I was happy for Isa and her new life chapter, just as I was excited for me to stay in Paris. But it was a bittersweet moment. As I watched her disappear into the Métro, I couldn't help but wonder: if I continued to follow this trail of flaky croissant crumbs, where would the path take me?

In the eight years I had lived in New York, it always thrilled me to return to the city. Whether I was training back from a weekend at my dad's in Connecticut or landing at JFK after three weeks of hiking and biking in New Zealand, I could never suppress my grin when I saw the jagged skyline, the halo of light emanating from the city, the sea of yellow taxis, or the mishmash of cultures and clothing swimming together in one crazy orgy. New York was under my skin. For years, it had been my true love. And then Paris came along.

After spending my junior semester abroad in Paris, the city had blossomed into this little fantasy of mine. Paris was the romantic counterpart to my gritty reality in New York. But I never thought it would happen to me. In my mind, Paris was the guy who's super good looking
and
nice
and
interesting
and
romantic
and
fun. You mean, that guy actually exists? And he's interested in
me
? Oh please, I don't buy it, not for a New York minute.

But after nearly six months in Paris, I knew it was a fact: Fantasies do come true. Despite my moments of uncertainty and pangs of loneliness, I was loving life in Paris. I was so smitten with the Gallic city's grand, plane-tree-lined boulevards and ever-so-slightly crooked side streets, its countless café terraces and the ritual of lingering on them with a single
café crème
or
coupe
de
champagne
. Every time I biked by a
boulangerie
in the morning and got a whiff of the butter baking into the folds of pastry dough and baguettes being pulled fresh from the oven, I was seduced all over again.

It was a no-brainer to stay in Paris. When my initial six-month
contrat
à durée déterminée
, the kind of work contract issued for a finite amount of time, was up at the end of summer, I eagerly re-signed, this time for nine months. Nine more months of working on Louis Vuitton, nine more months of living in my tree house, nine more months of European travels and sweet explorations. Nine more months of…Paris. I was mad for the place—I wasn't going to nip my love affair in the bud. But that didn't mean I wasn't also excited to be going home to New York for a two-week visit. In fact, with my trip on the horizon, I smiled, remembering my old lover's charms: things like pizza and chocolate chip cookies, fashion magazines and reality TV, gyms and taxis on every corner,
my
friends
.

New York, here I come!

Almost immediately upon touching down at the chaotic JFK, the duality of my life hit me. It seemed, for the first time since moving to and falling for Manhattan, things were going to be different. With the lovely, soft
pain
aux
raisins
from Stohrer still in my belly from breakfast in Paris that morning, I was assaulted by the smells of foot-long hot dogs and ten-ounce Cinnabons inside the airport terminal. Outside, the shrill shriek of car horns made me yearn for the relatively soothing clang of church bells in Paris. And everywhere I looked: big bottoms! Ginormous bellies! When did everyone get so fat?

On the subway ride into the city, I wrinkled my nose at the trashy tabloid magazines, at everyone shouting into their cell phones and snapping their gum, at the filth and graffiti covering the seats. Then I caught a glimpse of my puss reflected in the window, the city skyline visible in the distance, and I told myself to stop being such a snob. I was a New Yorker after all.
This
was my home; Paris was only temporary. Who was I to suddenly look down my nose at everything I had always regarded with such adoration?

The first few days of the visit didn't get much better. It was taking me awhile to come out of my shell shock and fall back into a New York groove. It didn't help that AJ, my rock, was on a business trip in Dubai and I still hadn't seen her, or met this guy, Mitchell, with whom she had quickly become serious. I was keen to get to know who had stolen my best friend's heart but had to wait a couple more days for her return. In the meantime, what I needed was some good old American bonding. I rallied the troops at one of my favorite old haunts, Sweet & Vicious.

Everyone had been complaining about what a washout the New York summer had been, but after a perfect season in Paris I was now lucking out with a heat wave. It was a warm and still evening. The first to arrive, I settled on a picnic table bench on the bar's back patio with a fresh vodka tonic, admiring the brick tenement buildings looming over me with their rickety fire escapes—so New York! I was wearing a sleeveless grey silk blouse I had bought in one of the Marais's chic boutiques and sandals to show off my pedicure—the first one I'd had in six months, as they cost twice as much in Paris, and I stubbornly refused to spend
30 on having my toes polished when that money would be better spent on wine, cheese, and chocolate. Waiting on the patio, I had butterflies in my stomach as if an old flame was about to show up. It was the most excited I had been since arriving in New York.

“Amy, darlin'!” My six-foot-five-inch giant of a friend, Jonathan, ducked through the door and enveloped me in a bear hug. “Oh, my girl. I'm so happy to see you.” He looked down at me with his sideways smile and shook his head.
This
is what I needed, I told myself, melting into his mass, familiar and warm.

“You too, love! How are you?” I asked, buried in his armpit, which was both disgusting and wonderful. But I didn't give him time to answer. “Tell me what's going on at work,” I commanded, reluctantly pulling away to look at his face. As a project manager, he was forever plotting to take over the production department of his ad agency. I knew that he had six months of intrigue and cattiness to unload and that other friends would soon arrive and interrupt us. He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to share the latest drama when—too late—the girls arrived.

“Ammmmyyyy!” Melanie, Mary, Krista, and Carrie sprang through the back door, looking fabulous in their heels, handbags, and jewelry—New York to the nines. After sipping sidecars and sharing secrets for so many years, we were now like teenage girls reunited after the long summer vacation. Our chorus of squeals and hugs provoked a couple curious looks but everyone on the patio quickly turned back to their cocktails and conversation. A flood of happiness washed over me. It wasn't just seeing my friends again. But for the first time in months, I was at a normal bar where you stood around and socialized, instead of clustering yourselves in private groups around café tables. You could actually mingle and act rowdy—absolutely unacceptable behavior in Paris. Tonight, there was none of that impossibly hip and aloof French attitude. None of the cliquish there's-no-way-in-hell-you're-breaking-in-here protectionism. I was on familiar territory, in the arms of old friends. I had forgotten what the home court advantage felt like.

Within the hour, Mike and Corey showed up. Then Ben and Merrill. And Kurt and Christy. It had been a long time since everyone had been together and there was lots of catching up to do. As I looked around at my friends, I realized that while I had been settling into Paris, everyone here had been settling into domesticated bliss. Aside from my band of girlfriends from work, all my New York friends were paired up. It gave me a strange flashback to when I was six years old and would watch my parents' hippie friends with their cigarettes and joints, whiskey and rosé, mingling and laughing at casual parties on our big front porch. They had seemed so artsy and fabulous—so adult. I now found myself looking at my friends with the same wide-eyed wonder, and even a little bit of that little-girl envy. It was a strange pool of emotions that I suppressed by ordering another drink.

Hours later, the powder blue twilight had turned to night and I had downgraded from vodka tonics to beer. All the couples had returned to their apartments to walk their dogs—clearly in training for the next step: babies. It was just the tribe of us single girls now. And as much as I loved my girls, I hated that New York was overrun by a million little groups just like us. It was inescapable: there were too many single ladies in this city.

The talk naturally turned to advertising since we had all met at the same agency years ago and bonded over office politics (and those incredible Pâtisserie Claude croissants). Stories started flying about who was working where and which senior VPs were acting naughty. The salaciousness of the business and dishing about it had always been a guilty pleasure of mine. But as Krista let loose on her old boss who had had not one, but two, interoffice affairs, as well as a second child with his wife in the past year, I couldn't rouse the proper disgust or delight. I dug for it, but—nothing. “The guy clearly has to go to sex addicts anonymous. It's like he's David Duchovny or something.” Everyone else laughed at the reference to the Hollywood star's rehab stint for sex addiction, but I had started going numb.

I didn't know if it was the flood of emotions from seeing so many friends at once or if it was something else, but I suddenly didn't feel like myself. I was nodding my head at all the right points in the conversation, but inside I was floating away. I couldn't get close to anyone. These were friends who knew me inside and out. But they didn't feel the same. The bar and city didn't feel the same.
I
didn't feel the same.

“Have you been to the Standard Grill yet?” Mary asked. She must have seen my eyes going vacant and was trying to steer the conversation into firm Amy territory. When I had lived in New York—
had
it
really
been
only
six
months
ago?
—I wrote restaurant reviews and roundups for the local pubs, and religiously read every magazine and blog about food, restaurants, and the local dining scene. The girls always turned to me for the best first date, brunch, neighborhood gem, old-school New York, cheap Mexican, cool design, best bathroom, of-the-moment restaurant recommendations. “It just opened in the Meatpacking,” Mary continued, trying to reignite my enthusiasm.