by Amy Thomas
“Uh, hel-lo? Being single in Paris is like having a social disease,” Michael explained, dumbfounded he had to point out this very evident truth. “I mean, if you’re not in a relationship, you might as well be dead.” He paused, watching a guy in a manual wheelchair maneuver the crosswalk outside the window of Gaya Rive Gauche, Pierre Gagnaire’s pricey seafood restaurant. “Or a paraplegic.”
We were indulging in one of our regular lunch splurges, and I was whining, as I had been with increasing frequency, about my lack of dating opportunities. At least the restaurant was proving to be a winner, even if I wasn’t. While perusing the menu, we indulged in crusty bread, served with both butter and olive oil—it’s a rarity to get one or the other, much less both in Paris. We were also enjoying a beautiful amuse-bouche of octopus salad, which we speared with toothpicks, and a carafe of chilled Valflaunès Blanc. And the subsequent courses, right down to the chocolate praline cake served with rhubarb compote and salted caramel ice cream, were fantastique. But still, it had nothing on our previous lunch at Le Grand Vefour.
The history of Le Grand Vefour, tucked inside the gardens of the Palais-Royal in the first arrondissement, goes back to King Louis XV’s reign. It’s legendary. Napoleon wooed Josephine there. Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, and Colette all dined there. It has three Michelin stars and a masterpiece of an eighteenth-century interior, complete with lush red velvet banquets, gilt trim, painted frescoes, crisp white linens, and silver vases skyrocketing with fresh flowers. It’s an unforgettable experience before you even sit down to eat. But eat you do.
Michael and I had one o’clock reservations, and I ducked out of work inconspicuously enough. When I arrived at the restaurant, I joined my hungry friend at our table that afforded us a prime view of all the dining room’s spectacles: the elaborate decanting of fine French wines, the delivery of the painstakingly constructed plates, and the meticulous choreography of the wait staff. There was a team of at least eight waiters, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty, each of whom clearly had his role (yes, his; there are only male waiters at Le Grand Vefour, and you can tell they’re all proud to have worked there all their lives). More than once, one of the older gentlemen, in his dapper black suit, would catch me lustfully eyeing someone else’s dessert and he’d joke, “Not yet,” making me laugh.
We went for the three-course, 125 menu—obviously a splurge, and yet I barely batted an eye, seduced as I was by the restaurant’s opulent setting. But the prix-fixe menu was also quite a value, considering it was really four courses once you factored in the biggest, most ridiculously decadent cheese course that came with it…or six courses, when you counted the two amuses-bouches that began the meal…or eight courses with the two side dishes served alongside our entrées…or fourteen courses with the dishes of complimentary gelées, caramels, chocolates, lemon cakes, and petits fours that came in addition to our dessert course. The meal was absolute madness. Absolute decadence. Absolute bliss. Each time someone from the cast of waiters approached our table to deliver a new plate, pour more wine, or just smile at us and make us feel like royalty—I wanted to give them another 10 in sheer gratitude. It was one of the richest dining experiences of my life.
Three and a half hours later, I was stuffed on French food and walking on air, though admittedly feeling a tinge of guilt for having been gone so long. As I approached the office, one of my colleagues who was on a smoke break looked at me knowingly. “Was it a good baisenville?” she asked. A baisenville, she had taught me only the week before, is slang for a “fuck in town.” In other words, she had noticed how long I had been gone and naturally assumed I was enjoying some afternoon delight with my imaginary French lover. The way I had been struggling with cultural norms lately, it seemed like a midday romp would have been more acceptable than spending over three hours at lunch. So I did my best impersonation of a fabulous French woman, gave her a conspiratorial smile, and didn’t say a word as I slipped back into the office.
Back at Gaya Rive Gauche, Michael was still schooling me about dating in Paris. “Haven’t you ever noticed that there’s no Sex and the City equivalent here? It’s not cool to be a single girl!” He sputtered on, “You’ve never noticed that everyone’s a couple here? Whether they’re happy or not? Faithful or not? It’s all about image. The French are the biggest conformists in the world. They have to have their Sunday dinners with the family, someone to go on les vacances with, someone to split their baguettes with. Couples, man, couples! God forbid you make a dinner party awkward by forcing it to be an odd number.” He couldn’t stop himself now. “They’re like monkeys,” he continued. “They don’t swing from their vines unless there’s another one to jump onto. And since they’ve been palling around with their childhood friends forever, that’s their pool of potential mates. They’re not going to let you break in. The women would never have it, and the guys are too pussy.” As he ranted on, everything started making sense.
Of course. How could I not have noticed these unspoken rules before? Everything in Paris, from the side-by-side café seats to the ping-pong tables in the parks, was arranged in pairs. I remembered being reduced to tears of humiliation at the Jardin des Tuileries carnival—not because I was a thirty-six-year-old at a carnival by myself, but because the operator of the Grand Roue made me stand in the sidelines for fifteen minutes like a naughty schoolgirl until another solo rider came along. I couldn’t ride alone. Alone, alone.
I thought of the devout attentions of men at parties—until their girlfriends entered the room and led them away by the arm without so much as bonsoir to me. And the way my female colleagues took pride in going home every evening to make dinner for their boyfriends or husbands. At first, I thought it was sort of charming in a retro way. No one back home would have ever admitted to such a traditional role. But now I saw that being in a relationship offered validation in Paris the same way having a successful career did in New York. Being half of a couple was the ticket to total self-worth.
“I mean, even the difference in the languages makes it clear,” Michael was winding up, our bottle of wine empty, the dishes of caramel ice cream long since licked clean. “In English, ‘single’ sounds like you’re ready to party. But célibataire? It sounds like you’re entering a monastery.”
Indeed. Once again, Michael had a point, and I was reminded that I wasn’t finding my place in Paris. I was ready for a nap.
In my short time in the City of Light, there was at least one man with whom I had become intimately acquainted: Pierre Hermé.
Variously coined “The Picasso of Pastry,” “The King of Modern Pâtisserie,” “The Pastry Provocateur,” and “The Magician with Tastes,” he’s the rock star of the French pastry world. In a country that takes desserts as seriously as Americans take Hollywood relationships (that is to say, very), he has the respect and admiration of Paul Newman.
At the age of fourteen, in fact, Gaston Lenôtre of the famed Lenôtre Pâtisserie asked Pierre’s father if he could apprentice Pierre. So at about the same age that I started whipping up Oreo blizzards for my illustrious career at Dairy Queen, Pierre began his in the French pastry world.
After five years at Lenôtre, at the spry age of nineteen, he became the head pastry chef. If you’ve ever seen the billowy white gâteaux or structurally perfect strawberry tarts from this Parisian landmark, you know how impressive this is. Later, he moved on to Fauchon, another top marque in the French pastry world, where he caught the world’s attention with his Cherry on the Cake, a towering creation of hazelnut dacquoise, milk chocolate ganache, milk chocolate Chantilly cream, milk chocolate shavings, crushed wafers, and a bright red candied cherry—phew! complete with stem—on top. This was an important revelation for two reasons: its artistry and the unexpected flavors.
Unveiling this cake is a ritual, and if there’s one thing I’d learned, it’s that the French like their rituals. The more dramatic, the better. Untying the satin bow at the top of the cake’s tall, triangular box allows the sides to fall away,
revealing the gleaming cherry and six gold-leaf markings down the side, which indicate where to slice to serve the six perfect portions. With this cake, Pierre proved he was wildly creative, yet precise and thoughtful; a hedonist, but a hedonist with a little restraint and a lot of skill.
Just as with its design, the flavor of the Cherry on the Cake left the French gasping. While they’re typically dark and bittersweet chocolate devotees, this cake is all milk chocolate. Pierre took a risk that his budding fan base would fall for the milk chocolate and not think him sacrilegious for eschewing the dark. Same thing with flavors like lychee, rose, and salted caramel, which are common these days, but were out there when Pierre introduced them to his macarons and cakes in the early days. People started noticing this young pastry chef and what he was doing with flavors and textures. And because his creations were so delicious, they started wanting more.
Pierre Hermé then launched Ladurée’s Champs-Élysées location—essentially rounding out his CV with the most important names in the French pastry world—and finally journeyed to Japan to open his first eponymous pâtisserie in 1998. It wasn’t for another three years that Parisians were treated to their own Pierre Hermé boutique. Now there are half a dozen locations in Paris, two in London, and seven in Japan, plus a dozen cookbooks and a line of tea, jams, and scented candles. Oh, Pierre…
As all the other women rushed home to make dinner for two, I would be lusting after Pierre Hermé’s gorgeous cakes, which seemed to be the one thing in the city that came in individuel sizes. They were impressive examples of both style and substance that reminded me of the fanciness of Lady M in New York. Back home, Lady M’s signature Mille Crepes cake—twenty silky crepe layers that sandwiched vanilla custard and caramelized sugar—seduced me every time. But that seduction was like child’s play in comparison.
At first, it was thrilling to scramble out of work so as not to miss the opportunity of having my love before the pâtisserie doors snapped shut for the night. Then, admittedly, it became a problem. Never mind how tight my agnès b. jeans had gotten; I realized the cakes and other sweets I was inhaling on a nearly daily basis were a substitute for the strong human embrace I really desired.
I knew from experience I’d have to wait in line at Pierre Hermé’s sleek rue Bonaparte boutique, his original location, even in the evening. Indeed, there was a long queue on the sidewalk, and I suspiciously eyed the gray sky for raindrops as I joined it. Every few minutes, the snapping automatic doors would open and someone would exit. I would be a step closer to the rows of pristine cakes adorned with fresh berries, coffee beans, and dark chocolate shavings that waited inside—a step closer to cake heaven.
I breeched the entrance and inhaled deeply. The rich, intense scent of chocolate enveloped and comforted me. But the feeling of peace was short-lived. Dear God, I thought, scanning the amazing array of cakes before me, somehow I have to decide what I’m going to order. I eyed my options: the Saint-Honoré Ispahan, which looked like an elaborate Indian temple and was made with the same flavors that had previously made my knees tremble: rose macaron, rose Chantilly cream, lychee gelée, and topped with a fresh raspberry. Or maybe the Tarte Mogador, a spicy and smooth combination of short-crust pastry, milk chocolate and passion fruit ganache, concentrated pineapple, and a flourless chocolate biscuit. Dozens of options—and, by now, dozens of impossibly thin French women and lip-licking Japanese tourists behind me in line. My palms started sweating from the pressure. Then the elegant man on the other side of the counter looked squarely at me. “Mademoiselle?”
I was thrilled to be acknowledged as a girl instead of the “Madame” I had gotten used to, and my nerves calmed. I looked back down at the rows of resplendent cakes and it became plain as day. “Le Plenitude Individuel, s’il vous plaît.”
Pierre debuted his Plenitude line in 2003. “Is it chocolate with caramel, or caramel with chocolate?” he teases, pointing out the contrasting, yet perfectly balanced chocolate and caramel pairing he uses in this line of macarons and cakes. Dark chocolate and salted caramel are flavors I know intimately. They never fail to make me happy.
I paid the hefty fee and took my petite dome-shaped cake filled with chocolate mousse, caramel, and fleur de sel to the Square des Missions Étrangères, a ten-minute walk toward the hoity-toity rue du Bac quartier. It’s one of the few parks that has retained its quiet beauty instead of being built up with bright plastic playgrounds and screaming enfants. The perfect spot to sit on a quiet bench with my treasure.
I was loath to disrupt the many perfect squares of chocolate—all dark and glistening save for the one single white chocolate slab—that adorned the chocolate fondant. Staring at it, I realized another reason why I loved Pierre Hermé. It’s not just that he made the most exquisite cakes in Paris or that he came up with the most mind-blowing flavor combinations. I was also instinctively drawn to him because he did things a little bit differently. He was a man not beholden to tradition and who blazed his own trail. In my own small way, I was doing the same thing. No matter how dreamy my life in Paris sounded, I had taken a risk moving there as a thirty-six-year-old. Falling in love with Paris had been easy. Living there was getting harder and harder.
I had told myself I would show a little restraint and not eat the entire cake. But there I was, staring at my last bite. Oh well, I rationalized, at least it was only an individuel size.
I was terrified my third date in Paris was going to be another freak show; strike three and I would be out of the dating game altogether. Only two things gave me reason to hope otherwise. The first, my dear Melissa was setting me up. And second, she was setting me up with an American. At least there would be some sort of comfort and familiarity.
Indeed, the date was pretty good. It ended with a heavy make-out session (ten times better than with the Swedish beanpole, which isn’t saying much, but still…) and an exchange of numbers (unlike with Salt-and-Pepper, put to use that night with a fleet of texts). It even led to a second date in which a homemade chocolate praline cake figured prominently. Maybe he wasn’t my tarte-tatin-making pastry chef. He definitely wasn’t Pierre Hermé. But at least it wasn’t a strikeout. There was hope for me yet.
More Sweet Spots on the Map
C’est vrai. Pierre Hermé is a rock star. A god. Every sweet freak should genuflect at his altar. But that’s not to say there aren’t a gazillion other amazing pâtissiers in Paris. If it’s gorgeous gâteaux you’re after, prepare to become une leche-vitrine (“window licker”) at any of these places: La Pâtisserie des Rêves (in the 7e and 16e), Gérard Mulot (3e and 6e), Stohrer (2e), and Hugo et Victor (7e and 1er).
Cake in New York tends to be more “cute” than drop-dead gorgeous. But that’s okay; cute still tastes delicious in the hands of the right bakers. See for yourself at Amy’s Bread (in Hell’s Kitchen, the Chelsea Market, and West Village), Baked (Red Hook, Brooklyn), and Black Hound Bakery (East Village).
If April is the cruelest month then T. S. Eliot wasn’t acquainted with Paris in November. Beyond the bad dates, bogus work environment, and all my botched but earnest attempts at being a walking, talking Parisienne, by year’s end I just wanted to curl up in an air-mail box and go home to New York.
By that point, I figured, it was where I belonged. I was still struggling with the language and couldn’t crack the social protocol. I could never tell if I should remain on vouvoyer terms with people or if I had broken through to the friendlier tutoyer. I was confused by the air-kiss greeting: should I make accompanying kissing sounds or just bump cheekbones? And every time I met a local and we talked about getting together, nothing transpired. Everyone told me the French were hard to infiltrate. But it’s different when people talk about it as a concept, and when you actually experience the chill of their sangfroid every day.
Everything in this foreign city had an extra layer of difficulty. No matter what the task at hand, it required exceptional flexibility and demanded infinite wells of patience. When I asked about the status of the Ogilv
y business cards I had ordered months ago, for example, the office manager told me, “Next week.” For the eighth week in a row. My tree house’s two-in-one oven-microwave started emitting a scary piercing sound that made use impossible and, instead of replacing it tout de suite, my jolly landlord told me to “have fun” with my first appliance purchase in France. Though a check I had deposited to my French bank account had cleared my U.S. account three weeks earlier, the money wasn’t showing up and my bank rep wasn’t responding to my email inquiries or phone messages, leaving me scrounging for lunch money and stewing in my juices. And I was feeling a little freaked out since my doctor had left a voice mail to go over some test results I’d had a couple weeks earlier. When I called back, however, she had left for a two-week vacation. While I was hoping the results were A-OK, my attention turned to Milo who had started crazily yanking out big tufts of fur from his haunches, requiring a whole new vocabulary for the vet that I didn’t even want to know.
I suddenly understood what it was like to be handicapped, for I had become a mute. The simplest things rendered me a withering mess. I was clumsy and tongue-tied, intimidated and frustrated. Since I was alone so often (if you don’t count Milo and his new bald patches), these dark thoughts and self-doubts just swirled around my head, leaving me with way too much time to dissect the crazy French and their crazy ways. Then I started wondering if it was just me. I started asking myself, “Am I crazy?!” and when I realized that I was talking to myself I thought, actually, oui, maybe I am! A crazy cat lady. My biggest fear, finally realized in the most spectacular city on earth.
