by Amy Thomas
Thank God I had decided to slog through my loneliness and fear and not run home with my tail between my legs when things started getting hard. I had been ready to quit everything and go back to New York’s comfort and familiarity. But by doing so, I would have walked away from the best career run I’d had in my life. I never would have seen so much of the French countryside. I wouldn’t now eat duck, rabbit, herring and sardines, and about eighteen varieties of cheese and wine would be woefully unknown. Only weeks ago, I was convinced I belonged in New York. Now I felt I belonged in Paris.
While there were still questions—how long did I want to stay, where should I push my career, would I actually fall in love and have kids—I also knew that finding the answers required effort and patience. But finding those answers was why I was in Paris. “I mean, it sucks that I haven’t met anyone and I still struggle with the language and meeting people,” I continued my mini-therapy session with AJ, who was propped up on her elbow. I turned and mirrored her. “But everyone has their issues wherever they are. And I’m just trying to focus on the positive and believe that what’s meant to be, will be.” I paused. “And it will, I really believe that. Do I sound crazy new-agey?”
“Not at all. I think you have the right attitude. We never know what tomorrow will bring, so just enjoy your time in Paris, Aim. You’re lucky to have the freedom to be doing what you’re doing and enjoying so many cool things. You should be proud of yourself,” she cheered me on. “It’s not easy moving to a foreign city, where you know no one.”
“Thanks, A,” I said. “But enough about moi. This is it! You’re getting married tomorrow. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”
“I know, married. It doesn’t seem real.” AJ got sucked into a mini-reverie, her eyes going glassy. Then she looked at me. “We’ve had so much fun.”
“You and Mitchell?”
“No! You and me! Remember all the nights at Passerby?” she asked, referring to a tiny Chelsea bar with a flashing Saturday Night Fever dance floor. Inevitably, it was where we ended up during our single years, boogying until the wee morning hours.
“Yeah, and kir royales at Pastis…”
“And hanging out with Warren and Eddy at Bond Street…”
“Oh yeah, I had forgotten about them!” I confessed. After all, our nights had tended to be anchored far away from Noho in the circus-like Meatpacking District and dark, meandering streets of the West Village. “And remember the parties we’d throw at Craig’s apartment? Those were so fun.” We might as well have been talking about our sweet sixteens or senior prom with the amount of nostalgia we were dredging up.
AJ started laughing. “Remember how you did your demo of side crow in your purple party dress? Those pictures are awesome.”
“Yeah, and then of course Craig has to upstage me by doing full crow into a flying headstand.” We were both cracking up at the image of me and our good friend doing yoga moves at various cocktail parties throughout the years. Don’t ask me why we did it, but we did. It happened once and then became a regular party trick. “And remember Giles? Remember that night we met him and Gino and went back to their apartment and were up all night, dancing to the Bee Gees?”
“My God. When was the last time you saw the sun come up?”
“Uh, that night,” I shuddered. “I think it took me about a week to recover.”
This was it: our last single girls’ night together and instead of tearing up the town, we were giggling like schoolgirls, remembering all the previous nights in the city that we had made lifelong memories—and, on occasion, fools of ourselves. But at least we had gotten the most out of our time together in New York. Although I knew AJ and I would always be this close, I also knew we were saying good-bye: to our old lives, to a time when we were young and wild and free in New York City. With me in Paris and AJ going to the altar, we were officially entering a new phase, a time when banana cupcakes and late-night cocktails would be more occasional than de rigueur. Soon even a modest pleasure like sitting at Billy’s would be a rare event.
“We’ve been so lucky,” I said as our laughter died down.
“So lucky, I know.” AJ and I looked at each other in a moment of shared history. I could see her as a gangly, eager-to-please seventh grader; a nervous college freshman with her yellow Chevrolet packed full of boxes; a star shimmier on the dance floor of Passerby. No matter what, we would always be soul sisters.
“Let’s get some sleep,” I suggested, reaching for the bedside light. “Tomorrow’s kind of a big day, you know.”
“You’re right,” AJ smiled. “Night, Aim.”
“Good night. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Between getting my hair and makeup done and finding a strapless bra, to-the-knee slip, and sheer black stockings—things I had desperately needed for the wedding but were much less intimidating and stressful to shop for in New York than Paris—and also attempting to make it to Billy’s to get AJ a wedding-day banana cupcake, I had to finish writing my toast. Despite a brief run on the junior high debate team, public speaking has never been my forte. In fact, I hate it. And even though this toast was for my best friend, the thought of standing beneath the soaring ceilings of the Yale Club’s main banquet hall, where the eyes of 120 live guests plus the framed portraits of five Yale-educated U.S. presidents would be watching me try to be equal parts charming, funny, sincere, and eloquent, made me feel as nauseous as if I had “accidentally” devoured all 1,080 calories inside a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream.
But writing the toast was cathartic too. Having started it thirty-six hundred miles away gave me some literal distance to reflect on a near lifetime of friendship with AJ: the search for love in both of our lives, the romantic ideals and fantasies we had formed—and that had formed us along the way. Our notions of who the perfect partner was had changed over the years, from cool New England prepsters in our teens, to worldly and artistic charmers in our twenties, to just feeling lucky if we could meet someone sane and gainfully employed without children, a drinking problem, or latent misogynistic tendencies by the time we were in our midthirties.
While I had been one of those girls who had her bridesmaids’ and babies’ names picked out at the age of eighteen, at thirty-seven my life clearly looked nothing like the one my younger self had envisioned. But sometimes you want things just because you think you’re supposed to. And sometimes it’s the things you never even knew you wanted that give your life the most meaning. At the very moment that AJ was diving into the dream life we had fantasized about growing up together, my heart had led me further afield. My heart had taken me to Paris.
The Anglo-Franco mélange of two cultures that I was experiencing in my personal life could also be seen in the rising popularity of certain sweets around Paris. In fact, the English baker Rose Carrarini’s individual carrot cakes—the shape and size of Campbell’s soup cans, topped with a measured layer of cream cheese frosting—had become icons of la cuisine anglaise ever since she and her French husband, Jean-Charles, opened Rose Bakery in 2002 on the then little-trafficked rue des Martyrs in the ninth arrondissement.
Prior to that, the couple had already cooked up a successful food empire in London called Villandry. After growing and selling that business, they decided to venture south for a new chapter: a smaller bakery where they could be more hands-on.
It’s sort of ironic that carrot cake came to symbolize their nouveau eatery as Rose didn’t have formal pastry training, nor does she have a sweet tooth. But what she and Jean-Charles did have was a passion for healthy, organic ingredients, a keen sense for the next new thing, and some strong connections. Rose’s sister-in-law is Rei Kawabuko, the designer behind Comme des Garçons, and they created half the menu for Colette, the hypercool concept store on rue Saint-Honoré that lured international hipsters with its selection of bespoke baskets, electronic music, and art-house books. Even though the couple was intentionally vague about where and when they would be opening their bakery, word g
ot out and trendy Parisians were queuing before it even opened.
Just as the couple’s intention was always to dissolve the distinction between home and restaurant cooking by offering simple, wholesome food, they also blurred the boundaries of the kitchen and dining room of their rue des Martyrs canteen. The dishes—vibrantly colored market salads, square-shaped quiches with organic veggies spearing the eggy surfaces, and rows of marble cake, citron polenta cake, pistachio cake, plus the cylindrical carrot cakes—were arranged on a short counter immediately to the right of the entrance. This gave customers—who stood hovering over the display as they inevitably had to wait for a table—a chance to peer at what might soon be in their bellies.
Rose’s dalliances in sweets began back in London when she couldn’t find pastries and desserts that she wanted to eat and decided she’d have to do it herself. As soon as she took on the challenge of making pastry dough at Villandry, she realized there are many factors that go into successful baking besides just following a recipe. How you handle the dough and when you take it out of the oven can affect the taste as much as the ingredients that you put into the mixing bowl. She’d touch her pastries until they felt the right consistency and taste them until they were perfect to her palate.
It wasn’t just technique where Rose proved to be a natural. She was, and is, a genius recipe developer. She taught herself through practice, by listening and responding to customers’ desires, by reading the likes of Elizabeth David and Richard Olney, and by drawing inspiration from great chefs such as Alice Waters. She started with classic recipes and then twisted them to see how she could transform each dessert into something different—something better. Letting her instincts lead the way, she kept playing with recipes, adjusting measurements and altering ingredients, which, more often than not, meant reducing the amount of sugar. For example, she cut the sugar in her now-famous carrot cake by half of what the original recipe called for. As a result, Rose’s desserts are intentionally healthier than most. This philosophy is “the culmination of years of our taking out what is not necessary” is how she puts it in her delicious cookbook Breakfast, Lunch, Tea.
For the better part of a year, I had watched Anglo eateries popping up all over Paris. Just like on my visits to New York when I discovered new French bakeries, it brought me an uneasy mixture of excitement, pride, and serious annoyance. It was comforting to see familiar desserts, but it was jarring and bizarre too. After all, who wants to eat carrot cake when there are black currant macarons, raspberry-rose millefeuilles, and triple chocolate terrines studded with caramelized Piedmont hazelnuts? Pas moi. I was flummoxed as to how Parisians could be seduced by a totally unsexy dessert. But there it was: this humble cake of shredded root vegetables had made quite an impression on the Frenchies.
“I think it goes to show you, some of the best things in life are worth waiting for.” I was nearly done delivering my toast. My voice had stopped quivering halfway through, I was standing taller, with more confidence, and I think George W. even winked at me in empathy from his portrait on the banquet room’s wall. “So everyone, please raise your glasses—here’s to AJ and Mitchell!” After two minutes of sucking in my gut before all the guests, I exhaled. The MC plucked the microphone from my sweaty palm and I fled to the safety of my table for eight, where a ninth chair had been crammed in so I could sit with my four best coupled friends. With the toast behind me, it was time to party.
It was one of those weddings that starts with everyone looking coiffed and civilized but quickly spirals into a roiling sweat-fest. Mitchell had spent weeks putting together a playlist that married his passion for indie ’80s music with AJ’s devotion to disco. As evidenced by the packed dance floor, it appealed to AJ’s still-spry grandma as much as all us “kids” from high school days. With each hour, more mascara was smeared, more updos came tumbling down, and more neckties were tossed on the now-empty dinner tables. There were blistered feet, torn pantyhose, and more than one air guitar battle. It was brilliant.
“Yeah, Paris!” I excitedly shouted to Tom, one of AJ’s friends from her stint in Washington, D.C., whom I had bumped into while getting another glass of prosecco at the bar.
“Wow, that’s pretty awesome.”
“Yeah, I love it. It’s amazing.”
“I bet the food’s incredible,” Aunt Val said when we were both catching our breath after pogo-ing to Kris Kross.
“Oh-my-God-in-credible,” I gushed. “I mean, it’s like, how can an apple taste so delicious? Everything—the baguettes, the butter, the wine, the pastries—is just so flavorful, it’s insane.”
“How are the men?” two of AJ’s college girlfriends wanted to know. We were in the restroom, trying to salvage our matte complexions but were resigning to the fact that a fresh application of lipstick was about as good as it was going to get. “Bahh…” I dramatically shrugged my shoulders and immediately recognized that—sacré bleu!—with that simultaneous utterance and shrug, I was mimicking a French mannerism that drove me crazy back in Paris! I shook my head at the question and myself. “Let’s just say that I haven’t exactly figured the men out.”
Without a date that night, I was floating—free, happy, proud, and excited. I could flit about and talk to everyone. For the first time in a very long time—definitely the first time in Manhattan, city of searching for Mr. Right—I didn’t care about being single. So I didn’t have a fabulous plus-one at my side. I had a fabulous life back in Paris. I was enjoying how everyone responded to those two simple syllables when they fell from my lips: Pair-iss. They sighed, swooned, and became starry-eyed. Or maybe that was just how it made me feel.
If a good wedding can be judged by how much your feet throb the next day, then AJ’s wedding was a roaring success. As I stretched back in my seat on the flight back to Paris, achy, blistered feet released from the captivity of my leather boots, I was feeling downright giddy. It was everything and nothing: the dancing, the goofiness, the howling-in-laughter jokes, and the tender moments. The previous few days with my best friends in New York had given me the surge of love and reassurance I needed as I went back to Paris to embrace six more months of the unknown.
More Sweet Spots on the Map
Banana cake with cream cheese frosting is offered at many a New York bakery, from Baked to Sugar Sweet Sunshine to Amy’s Bread. But, in honor of AJ, Billy’s gets my seal of approval. Since opening in Chelsea, they’ve gone on to open additional outposts in Tribeca and Nolita.
By the end of my stint in Paris, there was a crazy wave of Anglo-American eateries that offered cheesecake, pound cake, cupcakes, and carrot cake, including Merce and the Muse in the Marais, and Cosi and Lili’s Brownies Café, both in Saint-Germain. But Rose Bakery is definitely the place for carrot cake. Just like Billy’s, Rose and Jean-Charles have slowly expanded with outposts in the Marais and the Bastille. Could New York be next?
As the language and cultural barriers began to feel ever so less foreign to me a year into my Parisian stint, another feeling emerged that was almost as disconcerting: Suddenly, I loved my job.
This was totally new to me. Sure, I’ve enjoyed my advertising career well enough. But it’s mostly been the people and atmosphere that I’ve liked. I’ve had amazingly kind and talented creative directors (they do exist!), fun and collaborative art directors for partners, and I’ve made genuine and lasting friendships. Then, of course, there are the perks of being in a creative industry—things like boozy happy hours that yield salacious gossip; decadent client dinners at which you order way too many courses and bottles of wine because someone else is footing the bill; and platters of cookies left over in the conference room after meetings. But advertising never moved me. It was something I did to pay the bills (and my imported chocolate habit). Until now. With the Louis Vuitton relaunch project underway, I was doing some of the most exciting work of my career.
A lot had changed since my breakdown six months ago. There were no more strategy decks or award show scripts fobbed off on me. No more
Friday night standoffs with my account team. Over time, my colleagues and I had come to an understanding of our roles. We had developed a rhythm and a rapport. They respected what I did as a writer and I, in turn, was a little less righteous and a little more flexible. We even had fun together now. There was also a new creative director and another writer, which helped lighten the workload and pressure. And with the growing team came—I wouldn’t exactly call it “process”—but we figured out a way to get things done. It wasn’t perfect, but it was easier than fighting. After all, what did we really need printed schedules, internal reviews, and project managers for? Things weren’t that important. Things would get done. And at the end of the day, they miraculously did. Or maybe a little of that laissez-faire attitude was just rubbing off on me.
Meanwhile, all my friends kept asking, “What kind of discount do you get?” The glamour of working on such an esteemed brand must have some sweet perks, right? No one was more sorely disappointed than me to hear rien. With my newfound love for the brand, I really wanted a Louis Vuitton bag—the caramel-colored Antheia Hobo, made from sublimely soft lambskin, to be exact. The monogram pattern was hand-quilted, and I knew it would be the most sophisticated ode to my time in Paris I could ever imagine. I really wanted that bag. But with no discount, and without an extra $3200 tucked in my panty drawer, I settled for the Paris City Guide, Vuitton’s slender travel book, which was the only thing I could afford in the Champs-Élysées flagship.
But at least the job came with other perks. Things like presenting my work to Antoine Arnault, the luxury conglomerate president’s lanky, blue-eyed son, at the hushed Pont Neuf headquarters that gave me a bird’s-eye view of the Bateaux Mouches chugging up and down the Seine. Or sipping tea from heirloom china in the afternoon, and brandy from crystal tumblers in the evening, at the Vuitton family home in Asnières, a chichi suburb northwest of the city. Or peeking into Marc Jacobs’s atelier from across the courtyard and sometimes seeing him at work there on his newest collection. I even got to breathe his creative genius one day when he got in the elevator with me at Pont Neuf, wearing his signature black kilt. Oui, oui, I was becoming quite comfortable working for this legendary fashion house in Paris.