by Amy Thomas
Every day was spent sitting at my desk—which had been in the Vuitton offices since winning the relaunch—researching the storied company’s 155-year-old-history. I knew that Gaston, Louis’s great-grandson, was a huge bibliophile with serious wanderlust and had laid the groundwork for the company’s foray into publishing. I could now recognize the work of the power photography duo Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott as they had shot some of the company’s sexiest ads. I could tell the difference between a Speedy, Keepall, and Neverfull, and knew the teal Vernis Alma was from the 2009 autumn collection, whereas the eclectic black Epi Alma came that following winter. Stephen Sprouse, Takashi Murakami, Ruben Toledo, Peter Marino—they were all names that never would have meant much to me otherwise, but I was now intimately familiar with as it was my job to know every last detail of the story of the House of Louis Vuitton.
Okay, so I didn’t get a discount, and I shamelessly coveted that Antheia bag. But I was hooked. Someone had snuck me the Kool-Aid and I found myself nearly as excited to go to work as I was to discover that Pierre Hermé had a new macaron flavor to sink my teeth into.
It had been eighteen months since that sunny summer when I took my Tour du Chocolat. On one evening during that visit, I had fortified myself from all the Vélib’ riding and chocolate sampling with a flat omelette des herbes at Café Select in Montparnasse. I was so content sitting on the terrace, not so much with the food, which was pretty mediocre, but just with the moment. It was l’heure bleu, that magical twilight time when the light, suspended between day and night, is just otherworldly. I was laughing at the antics of Sally Jay Gorce, my new favorite American-in-Paris heroine from Elaine Dundy’s fun and funny novel The Dud Avocado. I kept gazing across the busy boulevard to La Coupole, the famous brasserie where Josephine Baker had danced and Picasso, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald had dined, dreaming of the occasion to go. Now, a year and half later, I finally had it: I was invited to the Art Director’s Club Awards Ceremony to receive a trophy for one of our Louis Vuitton websites.
Advertising is as self-congratulatory an industry as Hollywood. It’s all about who works where, on what accounts, and what awards you’ve won. And it’s thanks to these ceremonies that you can keep tabs on who’s who. It’s hardly the Oscars, but it’s still a total schmoozefest.
I was looking forward to the night with anticipation, not so much for the pomp and fanfare but in nostalgic celebration of that summer evening I had spent across the street at Café Select. Back then, I’d had no idea that, one day, I’d not only be living in the City of Light, but I’d be enmeshed in a community there. It wasn’t anything like the Lost Generation, but at least I belonged to something.
I idolized the Lost Generation, that wildly talented, free-spirited, financially struggling, and emotionally cantankerous group of writers, artists, and philosophizers from the 1920s and ’30s who would stay up all night, smoking, drinking, and having intellectual spars. A Moveable Feast, Girl before a Mirror, The Second Sex—they had produced some of the most significant art and literature in my mind. They were the real deal. I knew Don Draper was giving ad folks a degree of coolness back home, but, as excited as I was for the evening, I was also a little sheepish to be going to the famed brasserie for an advertising trophy in the shadows of such artistic greatness. But fuck it, I was excited nonetheless.
Both Lionel, my macaron-loving partner with a super-sharp sense of design, and I were claiming victory, so we were allowed to bring dates. He naturally brought his wife, a large and lovely Mexican who, with perfectly lined eyelids and a flower in her hair, had successfully picked up that French je ne sais quoi. Jo, ever the good friend, was my date. The four of us met in front of the restaurant and entered the Art Deco splendor together.
The sprawling dining room, the size of about three tennis courts, buzzed with hundreds of people air-kissing and clinking champagne glasses. Waiters in black vests and bowties moved around briskly, setting pepper mills and bottles of Perrier on the tables, which were dressed in white linen. Cauldron-sized vases with knobby sticks of cherry blossoms decorated the backs of the brown velour banquettes. A fleet of green columns shot up to the ceiling, each adorned with a unique painting done by artists from the ’20s, like Brancusi and Chagall. I breathed it all in. Such rich and artistic history. And there we were—a French-Vietnamese with a mohawk, a five-foot-ten Mexican with flowers in her hair, an Aussie with a sly grin and funky eyeglasses, and me. We were a motley crew mingling with the bon chic mucky-mucks.
The scene cracked me up: men were decked out in tailored jackets and baskets; women wore billowy blouses and jeans—advertising hipsters with studiously disheveled hair, one and all. It could have been New York if not for all the scooter helmets that were toted around as proudly as the season’s must-have fashion accessory from Colette. I cast my eye, trying to guess everyone’s side talents and secret ambitions. The curse of being an advertising creative is you always dream of bigger things; every writer, art director, and producer has a half-written screenplay, shopped-around book proposal, music demo, or DJ gig. I looked at one woman with a chic Louise Brooks bob and matching strand of pearls, and imagined she crooned Ella and Edith at some subterranean jazz bar on the weekends. A guy nearby, stroking his salt and pepper stubble, rocking back and forth as he listened to his peers, I took for a budding director. Jo rescued me before serious self-loathing could kick in. “Should we mingle?”
“Sure. Except with whom?” I asked. “I don’t know any of these people or understand a word of what they’re saying.”
“Eh, me either. Let’s fake it. I think we’ve gotten good enough at it by now.” She and I still commiserated about how being an expat in Paris was like living inside a bubble. We could be seated at a dinner party, witnessing a confrontation on the Métro, shopping at a crowded street market—doing anything in the middle of this huge, international city—and remain utterly alone, trapped inside our heads. In your head, you could understand the voices; in the real world, words and conversations were just indecipherable background noise—beautiful, but meaningless all the same. But we made our way around the room in a valiant effort to look like we belonged. Like we owned that party. We watched the networking, flirting, and Gallic gesticulating—the things that translated quite easily into English—until we were asked to take our seats. The ceremony was about to begin.
The MC for the night was Ariel Wizman, a popular voice on French radio who was also one half of an electronic pop band. Accompanied by a waif in a cocktail dress (so original), he introduced a couple of creative directors who were brought up to the stage for brief speeches to tepid applause. Meanwhile, the dinner table was becoming laden with French goodies: bottles of champagne, then white, then red. Platters of mixed salad, then french fries, then sliced meat. The breadbaskets were regularly replenished, as were the bottles of still and sparkling water. My French skills had progressed, but not to the point of understanding phrases like, “And the trophy for best use of video in a corporate website goes to…,” so I tuned out, eschewing the meat but enjoying the free-flowing champagne and frites. I wondered where Ezra Pound might have sat decades ago, supping on the brasserie’s famed lamb curry. Or where Simone de Beauvoir and Sartre might have simmered, side by side, in their and others’ curls of cigarette smoke. I was thinking that Hemingway or Picasso had maybe even been in the very seat where I was, just to the left of the bar, when Jo started nudging me.
“That’s you, that’s you!” Lionel was standing next to the table, waiting for me. Ariel had just announced our award. I shook myself from my sentimental reveries and, together, Lionel and I stormed the stage.
Through a blinding spotlight, I could see hundreds of bored eyes sizing us up while this skinny, coiffed Frenchman in his chocolate-brown bespoke suit, worn sans tie, oozed game show enthusiasm with the voice like molten chocolate. He was gushing into the microphone, doing his job for the night, which was to make us feel très important. He presented each of us with a trophy, shook our hands, and then
directed us to exit, stage left. That was it—over in a flash and quite underwhelming. Until Melissa, my biggest fan in Paris, put it in perspective after seeing my blog posting and photo the next day: “Um, can we just take a moment…you are standing under spotlights, getting an award, on a circular stage, next to Ariel Wizman at La Coupole…way to make Paris your bitch, girl!”
As much of a sweet freak as I am, by the time I finish a meal, I’m not so interested in dessert. I prefer my sweets midday or late night, consumed on an empty, eager stomach. But that night, the reward on top of the award was La Coupole’s baba au rhum.
Baba au rhum is a popular French dessert that was on my radar, owing to my close proximity to Stohrer, the historic pâtisserie on rue Montorgueil where the dessert originated. Nicolas Stohrer, the young Polish pastry chef, had journeyed to Paris in 1725 along with the king of Poland’s daughter, Marie Leszczynska, when she married King Louis XV. Five years after arriving in the court of Versailles, the royal chef opened this gorgeous pâtisserie. Two hundred and eighty years later, I was no stranger to its seductions.
Every time I stepped across the pâtisserie’s name scrolled in gold across the turquoise tiled floor, I wanted to have a tea party. Naked maidens from the pastel frescoes by Paul Baudry, the same artist who painted the Garnier Opera’s exquisite ceilings, stared down at me, and I couldn’t help but channel Marie Antoinette and her three-foot-tall pompadours and five-foot-wide ball gowns. I’d float along the display case, rendered more and more helpless by all the pretty colors, elaborate constructions, and sheer embarrassment of options. There was the charlotte aux framboises with its perfectly plump berries, and tiramisu served exquisitely in a fine demi-chocolate shell. The tartelette à l’orange with a glossy sheen that made it look like an art decoratif rather than a little edible something, and the chocolate éclairs, with thick, shiny glaçage, had received Le Figaro’s nod for the city’s best (a conclusion I concurred with). And then there was that funny golden, lumpish cake called the baba au rhum.
Nicolas Stohrer is said to have invented the dessert after splashing a dry Polish brioche with sweet Malaga wine to please the king. Stohrer’s baba au rhum—still served in coffee-houses and restaurants around the world—has remained unchanged for centuries. And in addition to the original version, there are two other varieties: the Ali-Baba with raisins and the baba Chantilly, which is topped with fresh whipped cream.
While I do ordinarily prefer my sweets as an afternoon gouter or a loyal companion in front of the TV at night, I loved the concept of dessert bars when they started popping up in New York. After all, they were the perfect excuse to just have dessert for dinner. I knew this was a totally valid philosophy after trying Pichet Ong’s West Village dessert bar, p*ong.
Pichet has certainly enjoyed the sweet taste of success. After launching his pastry chef career at La Folie, a lovely French restaurant in San Francisco, and working at Todd English’s acclaimed Olives in Boston, he took on Manhattan. When he arrived in the city, he worked at successful restaurants like Jean Georges and Tabla. He started earning accolades as the opening pastry chef of RM and consulting pastry chef to Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s popular restaurants, 66 and Spice Market. He told me that his own childhood was the foundation for his novel approach to baking that relies on flavors like yuzu, basil seed, and condensed milk—flavors not seen on every dessert menu. “I grew up in Southeast Asia and there’s a lot of sweet and savory in Asian food. In general, people don’t think about it. But it’s really nothing new for me as a chef or an eater.” With confidence in his unique skills, he struck out on his own. In 2007, Pichet opened p*ong, joining the nascent dessert bar trend. I went for my “Sweet Freak” column, and it was love at first bite.
I chose a seat at the bar—the perfect cover for a solo diner. But at p*ong, it had other advantages. Not only was I less conspicuous (Attention diners! Solo girl bingeing on cakes at Table 8!), but I could watch the creation and plating of the gorgeous confections.
Out of the gate, I ordered the walnut-crusted Stilton cheese soufflé, served with basil-arugula ice cream. Nuts, cheese, and herbs. It was savory enough in my book to count as a proper dinner item, and yet creamy and luscious enough to trigger my sweet satisfaction.
The chèvre cheesecake croquette, up next, was light and fluffy, another genre-bending dessert. Little cubes of diced pineapple were the only giveaway that this wasn’t what other people eat for supper.
And for the final course, I went whole-hog with the malted-chocolate Bavarian tart. It was a big hunk of creamy ganache, cloaked in chocolate crust and hiding beneath a layer of crunchy caramelized bananas. That chocolate-banana combination is one of my favorite things in the whole, wide world. With no reason for modesty, the rich tart was served alongside a delicate egg-shaped scoop of Ovaltine ice cream. I congratulated myself on choosing the perfect three-course dessert-dinner.
After that night, I was definitely smitten, not only with Pichet’s refined desserts but also with his ambitious talent and unconventional approach to sweets. I became a one-woman groupie, following him over the years as he launched new businesses and consulted for others.
After p*ong, Pichet opened a bakery next door named Batch. I had faithfully waited months for it to debut and when it finally did, I went straight up to him and asked for his top five picks. This is always an interesting test for a baker or pastry chef. Do they plead that their desserts are like children and insist that they can’t possibly have a favorite? Or do they act like true sweet freaks and rattle off their must-eats with a manic glint in their eye?
Pichet did neither. I could see the wheels turning in his head as his gaze darted around his gumdrop-sized bakery. I leaned in, licking my lips, eager for the chef’s top picks. Then he began:
The Valrhona chocolate chunk cookie: I liked that Pichet was an ingredients snob. Fastidious bakers make better sweets.
Chocolate dragon devil’s food cupcake: Again, made with Valrhona chocolate. That’s chocolate on chocolate—a no-brainer in my book. The more chocolate, the better. Nope, you can never have too much chocolate.
Ovaltine pudding: With its silky, malty flavor and caramelized bananas, this unique dessert was too close to what I annihilated on my visit to p*ong. I knew its creamy deliciousness, but I wanted to try something new.
Passion-fruit rice pudding: I could appreciate that this was inspired directly from Pichet’s childhood in Southeast Asia. But no matter how exotic dairy-free, coconut-vanilla rice pudding sweetened with tropical fruit sounded, I wasn’t tempted.
Carrot salted-caramel cupcake: Ding! This last one got to me. Carrot cake is always served with cream cheese frosting. This was different. I liked the salted-caramel buttercream approach. I placed my order.
By this time, I had sampled dozens of cupcakes around the city, from banana at Billy’s to pistachio at Sugar Sweet Sunshine to Out of the Kitchen’s classic yellow cake with chocolate frosting that tasted suspiciously, wonderfully, like Duncan Hines. They all had their merits. But none of them were the carrot salted-caramel cupcake from Batch.
The cake was so fresh, I could tell that it had only recently cooled from the oven. Shreds of carrot and hints of cinnamon gave the batter accents both spicy and savory, which were more complex than the plain chocolate or yellow cake of other cupcakes. The frosting also wowed me with discernible flavors: the delicately bitter taste of coffee extract and the tang of caramel. Then there was a lime cream-cheese filling hiding at the center: not exactly tart or sweet, but wholly unexpected and the most perfect complement to the cake and frosting. A dusting of Malden sea salt heightened all of the flavors. Happiness erupted from my tongue, and washed over every bit of me to the tips of my toes.
I was crushed when I heard Pichet closed both p*ong and Batch not long after my arrival in Paris. Crushed. But never one to remain idle, Pichet had moved on to the next sweet spot called, well, Spot. On one of my trips home to New York, I dutifully revisited him. It was more of a hybrid bakery-bar than tw
o separate businesses as p*ong and Batch had been. Otherwise, though, his sweet-savory creations were on delicious display. I sampled soft cheesecake, served elegantly spilling out of a highball glass turned on its side, with bits of huckleberry compote, crushed walnuts, and lemon foam. The white miso semifreddo, two fine slices of olive oil cake, which sat on a bed of crushed almonds alongside raspberry sorbet. And lastly, the über-rich chocolate ganache cake, which was similar to the dish I’d had years earlier at p*ong, but was now paired with green tea ice cream, crackly caramel crunches, and malted chocolate bits. Spot lived up to its predecessors. It was a different establishment, but it still had Pichet’s magic.
The more things changed in New York, I realized, the more they stayed the same in Paris. While Pichet represented everything edgy and innovative in New York’s dessert circles, history reigned in Paris.
Back at La Coupole, I bit into the glistening baba au rhum, the brioche oozing and squishy, a little bit obscene. The rum-soaked cake before me had royal origins and had remained unchanged for centuries. It was the perfect celebratory dessert for that night; a delicious fin de soirée. With the potent punch of alcohol rolling across my tongue, I absorbed the ghosts of Paris’s past, and took a last look at the scene before me. I may have been a bit sheepish that my big night at La Coupole had been about an advertising website, not some revolutionary belief or profound novel that would stand the test of time. But it was still something, and I was still in love with my job.