Paris, My Sweet
Page 19
As for the last question on my mind, it wasn’t exactly keeping me up at night, but it taunted me every time I went for Sunday brunch.
No, not the classic eggs-or-pancakes dilemma (salty or sweet?). But just where in the hell was all the French toast? Bien sûr, French toast was the king of brunch in New York. But on every menu in Paris, it was conspicuously absent. Were they hiding it? Boycotting it? Oblivious to this delicious dish that bandied their own nationality in its name (even though France had nothing to do with its origins)? Come to find out, in Paris, the equivalent of French toast is le pain perdu. It’s served as dessert, not breakfast. And it’s divine.
With le pain perdu, you already start with the best bread in the world: a simple French baguette. And then it just gets better from there.
Similar to baba au rhum, le pain perdu was the result of salvaging dry cake—or in this case, a stale baguette. It’s said to have been invented by Romans who couldn’t afford to waste a crumb of food. By moistening and heating old bread, they could revive and savor it for another meal. Granted, stale bread soaked in a mix of dairy is a little less sexy than the baba’s sweet wine and brioche folklore. But what le pain perdu lacks in romanticism it more than makes up for in decadence.
You slice and soak the baguette pieces in a custard batter of milk or cream, eggs, sugar, and, depending on the recipe, perhaps fresh vanilla, cinnamon, or other spices for up to thirty minutes. This soaking gives the bread an extra dense and heavy texture—like bread pudding or almond croissants, two of my favorite carb-filled indulgences. Then it’s cooked on a hot, buttered poêle, or frying pan, until it’s golden, crusty, and caramelized. Finally, it’s topped with all manner of naughtiness, from caramel ice cream to berry sauce to crème Chantilly—or all of the above, as was the case with my decadent dessert at the cozy two-story Saint-Germain restaurant, Au 35.
In the States, there’s a little less fanfare around French toast. The bread isn’t soaked so much as quickly dipped, and then it’s normally topped with just butter and maple syrup. Unless you know where to go.
Before Paris, I had fallen for a seriously ridiculous version of French toast in New York. Ben and I loved eating shamelessly together, had been momentarily delusional, and thought we’d get into one of the most popular Sunday-brunch destinations in the city—Gabrielle Hamilton’s restaurant, Prune—at exactly high noon. But after we were told the wait was ninety minutes, not even the promise of the 33 LP-sized Dutch pancake or eggs Benedict on a delicate English muffin could sway us. We regained our wits and decided to seek a new option. Not even half a block down the gritty East Village street, we stumbled upon a new spot: Joe Doe.
Started by a young couple from Long Island, Joe Dobias and Jill Schulster, the restaurant is tiny (with room for just twenty-six), rustic, and filled with intimate charms. Antique furniture and framed family photos decorate the walls and bar, while an open kitchen in the back corner makes it feel like you’re in Joe and Jill’s own home.
I don’t know if it was all so quaint and pastoral that I thought I could actually smell country air as we situated ourselves at the table in the front window or what, but I ordered granola. More likely, I had been bingeing on sweets all week and was now just trying to be “good.” Whatever the reason, it was silly. Not even two minutes later, the table next to us got their meals, and that’s when I saw it: a platter with two honking slabs of caramelized bread, drowning in a sea of syrup, buried under a pile of bananas and whipped cream, and dusted with a delicate layer of confectionary sugar. It was Joe’s challah bread French toast topped with bananas Foster.
“Um? Excuse me?” I flagged down our waitress. “Is it too late to change my order?”
She followed my gaze, which was desperately resting on my neighbor’s French toast, and took pity on me. “I don’t think so. Let me just check.” She walked back to the open kitchen and consulted with Joe. His eyes remained planted on the stove, his hands busy with tongs and spatulas. I realized I was holding my breath until the waitress turned around and gave me the thumbs up from across the room. I exhaled. Yes! I was spared that miserable feeling of restaurant order remorse.
Chef Joe evidently understands the power he wields in the kitchen. “There has never been a better topping,” the very opinionated chef said of his New Orleans-inspired Foster sauce, made with brown sugar, butter, and dark Meyer’s rum. I had to agree with his declaration. Twenty minutes later, when Ben and I were digging into our dishes, I was pretty sure I’d never had French toast quite so soddenly delicious.
It wasn’t just the bananas Foster topping. It was the whole package. “The bread is super important,” Joe instructed. “Originally I was a brioche guy, but a few years back, I discovered challah bread.” He cuts thick square slices from a giant loaf and does a quick ten to fifteen second soak in a batter of eggs, cream, milk, cinnamon, and vanilla extract. Unlike the stale baguettes used in France that better absorb moisture, the fluffy challah will get soggy if it soaks too long.
Then it all comes together: a custard-soaked plate of carbs beneath a wonderfully sweet sauce, sliced and caramelized bananas, plus whipped cream for good measure. “It should be colossal in order to fit the brunch bill!” Indeed, it was. It was a meal in and of itself. There was no way anything that big and decadent could have been stomached as dessert after a proper dinner in Paris.
The curse of being an expat, I realized, is that you belong to two cities and, as a result, neither entirely. I had been asking myself either-or questions, but the answers were not black and white but a million shades of Parisian gray. I could have French toast for breakfast and pain perdu for dessert. Live in Paris and love New York. Or vice versa. While straddling two cities had made me see life in stark dualities, it had also given me the chance to indulge in the best of both worlds. Maybe I could have my gâteau and eat it too.
More Sweet Spots on the Map
I think I missed French toast so much in Paris because the options in New York are so ridiculous and delicious. At Extra Virgin in the West Village, the caramelized bread is topped with bananas (also caramelized) and mascarpone (God, I love mascarpone). And at Good, also in the West Village, they stuff their French toast with banana cream cheese. Miam.
The trendy Hotel Amour in the 9e does serve le pain perdu for Sunday brunch, but the way to go in Paris is to order it for dessert. L’Epicuriste, in the residential 15e, tops their le pain perdu with a nice pear compote, while at J’Go in Saint-Germain, there is no topping, but the custardy, crusty, caramelized bread is heaven on a plate.
I was late to meet Melissa. We’d now known each other a year, but it was more like eighteen in “expat years” and I knew she was a friend for life. We were going to see Sex and the City 2 on the Champs-Élysées and, as excited as I was to see Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha whooping it up in Abu Dhabi, I couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm. My contract deadline was fast approaching, and I still didn’t know what to do. Was Paris really my dream life and the most important place to be? Or did I belong in New York?
On the Paris side, I had my jump-started career, the city’s beauty and architecture, budding new friendships, more European travels, and macarons. In New York, I had my friends and family, my East Village apartment (still furnished, waiting for me), a comfortable lifestyle, a culture in which I felt a sense of belonging, and cupcakes. After all the months of internally debating what to do, I was no closer to an answer.
But as I Vélib’ed across the magnificent Place de la Concorde, now one of my favorite and most symbolic places in the city, the clouds parted, sending dazzling rays of sunshine in a 180-degree arc. I had a cache of bonbons in my bag just as I had nearly two years earlier when I pedaled this same path on my Tour du Chocolat. The sky behind the clouds was the most brilliant blue. I knew at that moment that I was truly seeing the light—that staying in Paris, if only for another six months, was the right thing to do.
I thought of the pure happiness that coursed through my veins whenever I
rode one of those Vélib’s. The automatic smile that lit my face when I turned the corner and saw the Place Vendome in the morning. The ecstasy of that very last, hot and melty bite of a Nutella street crepe.
I thought of the hours I’d spent around different dinner tables and the number of boulangeries and pâtisseries that had seduced me with their warm baking smells and visions of bright, beautiful cakes. I thought of the infinite strolls I had taken through Paris and the distances I had traveled beyond the city’s borders. I thought about sipping cocoa with Mom and Bob at Angelina, of touring the kitchen of Du Pain et Des Idées with Isa, and of introducing Chris, Dad, the girls, and all my other friends who had visited me to the unforgettable flavors and exquisite pleasures of Paris. There were the French lessons and cooking classes. The professional challenges and dating follies. And, as unbearable as all those lonely, soul-searching nights had been, they were now deeply embedded parts of me—war wounds. Coming to Paris had changed my life. Maybe in a way that I couldn’t entirely articulate or define, but in a very important way nevertheless.
I parked the Vélib’ and ran to meet Melissa in the line stretching up the Champs. Wow, who knew chic Parisiennes were so devoted to the antics of fabulous New Yorkers? I saw Mel and waved. I was smiling. I had a spring in my step again. I had finally made my decision and sealed my fate. I was going to stay in Paris…if only for just a little while longer.
More Sweet Spots on the Map
The sweets shared in this book are by no means all Paris and New York have to offer. Nor are they necessarily my all-time favorites. (I mean, c’mon—I’ve barely even mentioned chocolate éclairs or fudgy brownies or ice cream sundaes or tarte tatin or…) But they each played a memorable part in my story. If I had to offer my top-ten sweets for each city, well, the lists would look something like this:
Paris
A good, ol’ oozing Nutella street crepe.
La Folie at La Pâtisserie des Rêves: the heft and texture of this squat pastry are pure magic. The doughy, whipped brioche is piped full of vanilla pastry cream that has a hint of rum raisin. Topped with praline crumble and a touch of confectioner’s sugar, it’s unbelievably yummy.
The insanely addictive praluline from Pralus Chocolatier in the Marais. This buttery, chewy, crunchy, caramelized sweet brioche, chock-full of almonds from Valencia and crushed hazelnuts from Piedmont, is meant for at least four people. But I would eat an entire one myself.
The sweet little strawberry Coeur from Coquelicot in Montmartre. Relatively modest in size—just four or five bites—but this petite cake has a pitch-perfect texture that’s both spongy and moist.
A chocolate éclair from Stohrer. The crisp pastry shell envelopes an über generous chocolaty custard filling and is slathered with a sweet chocolate glaçage. It’s a serious sugar rush.
Angelina’s stick-to-your-teeth chocolat chaud. It’s like sipping melted truffles. In a tearoom that Coco Chanel used to frequent.
Speaking of truffles, Jean-Paul Hévin’s truffles are le mieux. And his mendiants. And his cakes. Hévin = heaven in my book.
The rice pudding at Chez l’Ami Jean. I never would have thought I’d care a lick about rice pudding. But a dinner at Café Constant made me reconsider, and a later dinner at Chez l’Ami Jean changed everything. Served in a massive bowl with sides of candied granola and salted caramel cream, this is an unforgettable dessert.
The Plenitude Individuel from Pierre Hermé. While his macarons are, oui, divine, this little cake is transporting. Fluffy chocolate mousse under a dark chocolate shell. Kissed by salted caramel. Adorned with tiles of more chocolate. It’s gorgeous, exquisite, and delicious.
An almond croissant from Boulangerie Julien. When my friend Ben and I split one of these, we were giggling like school kids in the middle of rue Saint-Honoré. Fresh and flaky, slightly chewy and caramelized at the edges, heavy with almond paste and lightly dusted with powdered sugar and slivered almond. I mean, how can something be allowed to taste so good?
New York
The six ounces of chocolaty, oaty goodness that is Levain’s chocolate chip walnut cookie. It’s true, it’s tough to declare a favorite in this category, but if I had to eat one chocolate chip cookie for the rest of my life, I’d go with Levain’s.
A pain au chocolat from Pâtisserie Claude. Early morning. When they’re still warm and melty.
Any one of Pichet Ong’s cupcakes. Sadly, the carrot salted-caramel cupcake has vanished along with his bakery, Batch (though, shhhh, I have the recipe to make at home when serious cravings kick in). But there are plenty of other dreamy options at Spot, including berry chocolate, mocha caramel with Malden sea salt, vanilla yuzu lemon, and vanilla caramel Viennese coffee.
The chocolate bread pudding from the mobile Dessert Truck. It’s warm, spongy decadence with a molten middle, and topped with crème anglaise. What more could you ask for?
Although I say I’m more of a sweets snacker than a dessert girl, I will happily put away multiple desserts, after dinner, at Gramercy Tavern. While the menu changes seasonally, a couple past standouts include butterscotch bread pudding with pear sorbet and chocolate pudding with toasted brioche croutons and caramel.
Teuscher champagne truffles. This feels a bit like cheating as Teuscher is a Swiss chocolatier, not homegrown in Manhattan. But these decadent truffles make my heart go pitter-patter.
Crack pie at Momofuku. Because crack always keeps you coming back.
City Bakery’s peanut butter cookies. As opposed to the giant chocolate chip varietals, these are wee little scoops of peanut butter batter, baked to moist, savory perfection. Merci, Maury!
The chocolate blackout cake doughnut from Doughnut Plant. Chocolate. Blackout. Enough said.
A slice of banana cake with cream cheese frosting from Billy’s. Cupcakes are AJ’s favorite, but sometimes you just want to sit down with a slab of dense, moist cake, slathered in frosting. At least I do.
Paris
A l’Étoile d’Or
30, rue Fontaine (9e)
01 48 74 59 55
A la Flûte Gana
226, rue des Pyrenées (20e)
01 43 58 42 62
www.gana.fr
A la Mère de Famille
33-35, rue du Faubourg Montmartre (9e)
01 47 70 83 69
82, rue Montorgueil (2e)
01 53 40 82 78
39, rue du Cherche Midi (6e)
01 42 22 49 99
47, rue Cler (7e)
01 45 55 29 74
59, rue de la Pompe (16e)
01 45 04 73 19
107, rue Jouffroy d’Abbans (17e)
01 47 63 52 94
www.lameredefamille.com
Angelina
226, rue de Rivoli (1er)
01 42 60 82 00
www.groupe-bertrand.com/angelina.php
Au 35
35, rue Jacob (6e)
01 42 60 23 04
Blé Sucre
7, rue Antoine Vollon (12e)
01 43 40 77 73
Bob’s Juice Bar
15, rue Lucien Sampaix (10e)
09 50 06 36 18
www.bobsjuicebar.com
The Bottle Shop
5, rue Trousseau
01 43 14 28 04
www.myspace.com/thebottleshop
Café Constant
139, rue Saint-Dominique (7e)
01 47 53 73 34
www.cafeconstant.com
Chez Janou
2, rue Roger Verlomme (3e)
01 42 72 28 41
www.chezjanou.com
Chez Jeannette
47, rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis
01 47 70 30 89
www.chezjeannette.com
Chez l’Ami Jean
27, rue Malar (7e)
01 47 05 86 89
www.amijean.eu
Columbus Café
25, rue Vieille du Temple (4e)
01 42 72 20 11
www.columbuscafe.com
Coquelicot
24, rue des Abbesses (18e)
01 46 06 18 77
www.coquelicot-montmartre.com
Cosi
54, rue de Seine (6e)
01 46 33 35 36
www.getcosi.com
Cupcakes & Co.
25, rue de la Forgé Royale (11e)
01 43 67 16 19
www.cupcakesandco.fr
Cupcakes Berko
23, rue Rambuteau (4e)
01 40 29 02 44
31, rue Lepic (18e)
01 42 62 94 12
www.cupcakesberko.com
Du Pain et Des Idées
34, rue Yves Toudic (10e)
01 42 40 44 52
www.dupainetdesidees.com
Eggs & Co.
11, rue Bernard Palissy (6e)
01 45 44 02 52
www.eggsandco.fr
Eric Kayser
33, rue Danielle Casanova (1er)
01 42 97 59 29
16, rue des Petits-Carreaux (2e)
01 42 33 76 48
8, rue Monge (5e)
01 44 07 01 42
14, rue Monge (5e)
01 44 07 17 81
1, boulevard du Montparnasse (6e)
01 47 83 75 39
10, rue de l’Ancienne Comedie (6e)
01 43 25 71 60
87, rue d’Assas (6e)
01 43 54 92 31
18, rue du Bac (7e)
01 42 61 27 63
85, boulevard Malesherbes (8e)
01 45 22 70 30
Lafayette Gourmet (9e)
309, rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine (11e)
01 43 79 01 76
77, Quai Panhard et Levassor (13e)
01 56 61 11 06
87, rue Didot (14e)
01 45 42 59 19
79, rue du Commerce (15e)
01 44 19 88 54
79, avenue Mozart (16e)
01 42 88 03 29
19, avenue des Ternes (17e)
01 43 80 23 28
www.maison-kayser.com
Experimental Cocktail Club