Paris, My Sweet

by Amy Thomas

  “You know what you need to do?” she finally asked, her words coming like maddening drops in a bucket as opposed to Dr. Tippy’s rat-a-tat machine gunfire. I shook my head and swallowed again. “Profiter d’être à Paris.” She delivered this simple recommendation with complete and utter confidence.

  “Eh, excusez-moi?”

  “Profiter d’être à Paris,” she looked at me and then repeated it yet again with more emphasis. “Profiter d’être à Paris!” Okay, where was the hidden camera? This was a joke, right? From what I understood, I was being treated for ovarian cysts and had iffy fertility prospects, and she was telling me to simply benefit from being in Paris? I wanted a hardcore plan of action. I wanted a course of treatment. I wanted drugs! After all, what could going to the theater and opera do for my ovaries?

  If I were in New York, I knew I would be getting all kinds of prescriptions and advice. But the Specialist—in typical French fashion—shrugged the whole thing off. So, my internal stressing about living in a new country and culture has caused my system to go a little nutty? C’est normal. So my ovaries were temporarily withholding my eggs? Pas grave. So I was thirty-seven? Peu import. I just needed to relax.

  The oral contraceptives Dr. Tippy had prescribed—and this time I was taking them—were meant to trick my system into “working” again and eventually make those cysts go away. I was still young and lively. Now, if I could just enjoy being there—see some Balanchine, eat some foie gras, do what so many people around the world would kill to do in my position—well, that would make me all better! I could have a healthy body and pump out some healthy babies. Pourquoi pas? Why not?

  My feet limply dangled over the examination table as I waited for her real advice—a prescription, the name of another specialist, even some Eastern herbs or meditation techniques, anything tangible that I could walk away with to make me feel in control of the situation. But I was waiting for nothing. The Specialist rose from her desk, pushed a curl behind her ear, and wished me bonne journée.

  As I pulled on my jeans—damn, definitely tighter than they used to be—exhaustion from these past couple weeks of emotional roller-coasting set in. A storm of feelings hit me at once: irritation, disbelief, fear, sadness, regret. And yet I found myself giggling. This long, drawn-out process capped off by the indifference of the Specialist was utterly absurd. And par for the course in Paris. Vive la France!

  I found myself wandering aimlessly through the twelfth arrondissement after my appointment, muttering to myself. That’s it! Just enjoy being in Paris! Easy-breezy! No need to worry about your biological clock, mademoiselle—you might as well be twenty-seven!

  But as I passed by the green awning of Blé Sucré, Fabrice Le Bourdat’s pâtisserie on Square Trousseau, something clicked. If Marcel Proust, the French literary genius, had famously had an awakening biting into a plump little teacake known as the madeleine, maybe I could have a similarly transporting experience? If not an involuntary memory, perhaps an involuntary attitude adjustment? Fabrice’s citrus-glazed madeleines were reputedly the best in the city. Could one of his special sponge cakes be the key to my moving forward? I knew I couldn’t turn back the hands of time, but might something be triggered, releasing my pent-up hormones, flooding me with fertility, setting my body back in equilibrium? Could a madeleine make me better? If nothing else, I knew it would at least taste good. I went inside.

  Considering Fabrice had been pâtissier at the five-star Bristol Hotel, which is known for its divine desserts, and, prior to that, the chic Plaza Athénée and Hotel de Martinez in Cannes, he has an extraordinarily calm and blasé perspective on baking (not unlike the Specialist’s attitude had been about my ovaries). After the regal résumé building, he and his wife opened a modest bakery in 2006—the kind of neighborhood spot that everyone wants in their quartier. Every morning, and in waves throughout the day, lines stretch out the door, regulars waiting for his crunchy baguettes, flaky viennoiserie, and massive selection of petits gâteaux. Some, like the dome-shaped Le Vollon, are so glossy, the decadent dark chocolate looks molten. Others, like the L’Aligre, are as fluffy as clouds, topped with spears of candied pineapple. Fabrice’s wife, Celine, cheerfully serves the customers, and then many mingle at the pastel-colored, iron café tables in front of the bakery. Sometimes Fabrice will join them for an espresso. Indeed, nothing makes the pâtissier happier than pleasing his customers—with his baking and his friendship. In return, many Parisians insist his baguettes and pain au chocolat are the best in the city. But nary a soul will dispute that his madeleines take top honors.

  These shell-shaped teacakes from the town of Commercy in northeastern France date back to the eighteenth century. Made with génoise batter, which relies heavily on eggs, the edges bake to a dark golden color while the rest of the cake remains a sunny yellow. They can be put away in a quick five or six bites, making it nearly impossible to not reach for a second, and a third. They’re sort of similar to American muffins—if you disregard the current super-sized, candy-studded bastardized muffins that have become so popular in recent years. Although there’s at least one place in New York that has held onto the simple, wholesome concept of a muffin: Thé Adoré in Greenwich Village.

  Despite the French name, it’s a Japanese gentleman by the name of Yukihito Yahagi who opened the two-story tearoom twenty years ago. A small crew of cute and fashionable Japanese women work there, churning out simple sandwiches, soups, and quiches. And they make fresh baked goods in the morning. True to a French salon de thé, they bake traditional pastries like almond croissants, brioche, and even madeleines. But they don’t compare to the ones in Paris. While Fabrice’s madeleines are moist, light, buttery, and delicious, Thé Adoré’s are a titch on the dry, crumbly side—evidence that imitation may be the greatest form of flattery, but it’s tough to beat a French pâtissier at his own game. And with Fabrice’s thin layer of orange glaçage, made with freshly squeezed juice, he definitely has the winning touch.

  Thé Adoré’s muffins, however, are outstanding. Simple. Unpretentious. Lovely and delicious. Instead of softball-sized creations bursting with absurd mix-ins, there are only three varieties—raspberry, banana, and classic blueberry. They’re baked in humble parchment paper, and are the same size that our moms ate in the ’50s. They have a real do-it-yourself, made-at-home sensibility that I love.

  It became a favorite escape of mine in New York: having morning coffee and a blueberry muffin—so classically American—but in a shabby-chic, French-Japanese tearoom. With dark wood tables and mismatched chairs scattered across the plank floors, the upstairs dining room felt as cozy as a cabin in the Catskills. Until you gazed out the giant picture window over 13th Street and saw all the NYU students rushing about with their yoga mats and shih tzus, and realized you were in the epicenter of New York. Still, I always found Thé Adoré romantic and peaceful. It’s one of the few places in the city where you can sit with your thoughts and disappear for a while.

  And there I was, doing the same thing thousands of miles away. I had gotten a bag of four madeleines—the way they’re sold at Blé Sucré—and retreated to Square Trousseau. The limestone apartment buildings stood guard over the neighborhood park, sunlight filtering through the bare chestnut trees. A big gazebo was smack in the middle of the park. Vacant ping-pong and foosball tables—babyfoot to the Frenchies—were lined up like soldiers on one side. The other side was consumed by a giant children’s playground. As I looked around, I saw I wasn’t the only one in the park indulging in a sweet.

  Seeing as it was four o’clock in the afternoon, it was le goûter—the glorious hour when snacking was sanctioned. All the little rug rats were nibbling golden madeleines like mine, or pain au chocolat. A few humbly ate biscuits from the supermarket. But there were no fruit leathers or crackers powdered with orange “cheese.” French kids learn early the importance of good food. The climbing walls and slides on the playground echoed with cute voices, and, every once in a while, was punctuated by not-so-cute screams
and cries. A public park in Paris was hardly the place to come for a respite from thinking about kids.

  Perhaps it was coincidence, or maybe madeleines—good madeleines—really do have transformative powers. All I can say is Fabrice’s moist, citrusy teacakes were at least in part responsible for lifting me out of my funk. As I sat on a park bench, savoring the wee spongy snacks, my mojo started returning. Even if I didn’t like the Specialist’s advice, I couldn’t complain. Someone was telling me to enjoy Paris. To take advantage of living in such a phenomenal place—which was the reason I had come to begin with. It’s true, I realized, I was lucky. Lucky to be living in Paris, on my own path in life. I simply couldn’t cry over yesteryears and what might have been.

  I had spent thirty-seven years following my heart and my gut. There was no point in doubting myself now. When I had been younger and in relationships, it hadn’t felt right to get married and have kids. And as shaky as I had been feeling lately, I knew I didn’t regret those decisions. Maybe I’d still be so lucky to meet someone who knocked my socks off and have kids like Melissa predicted. Maybe I wouldn’t. But, as the crumbs from my final madeleine disintegrated on my tongue, I knew that everything would work out the way it was supposed to. Bite by spongy-sweet bite, my emotions were being reset.

  So I was willing to accept the Specialist’s optimistic prognosis. I decided 2010 was indeed going to be the year I profited by being in Paris. I had a belly full of pastries. The winter sun was warm and gentle. And it was a new day in Paris. It may have started out pretty crummy, but things were starting to get that golden glow again.

  More Sweet Spots on the Map

  The current love affair between New York and Paris means you can get plenty of plump madeleines in New York, and multiflavored muffins in Paris. It may not be on the same scale as the cupcake-macaron exchange, but the Franglais sweet swap is becoming increasingly popular for these small, unsung douceurs as well.

  In New York, you can get a nice, moist madeleine at Duane Park Pâtisserie in Tribeca, Ceci-Cela in Nolita, or at the ever-expanding Financier Pâtisserie chain. For muffins in Paris that will transport you to America, stop by Bob’s Juice Bar in Canal Saint-Martin, Columbus Café in the Marais, or Lili’s Brownies Café in Saint-Germain.

  Now, I’ve…had…the time of my life…and I owe it all to yooooo-uuuuu…”

  Ah, America. It was good to be back. JFK was as bustling as it always was. The Dirty Dancing soundtrack blaring from the speakers reminded me of the summer afternoons in high school I used to spend cruising around my Connecticut beach town in my little silver Jetta. Kim Kardashian and Lady Gaga blanketing every magazine cover reminded me how woefully out of touch I was with le smut du jour. Babies were screaming from their thousand-dollar strollers, cell phones were bleating like an electronic symphony, everyone—even barely walking three-year-olds—was tugging those little wheelie suitcases behind them, creating a candy-colored, movable minefield as I made my way from the Air France terminal to U.S. customs.

  This was the same sensory overload that had appalled me when I made my first trip back home only a few months earlier. But now, surrounded by people sporting velour tracksuits, fake tans, and tattoos—such a long, long way from the slim jeans, ballet flats, and perfectly painted lips back in Paris—it was like a big, warm, chubby hug from America. This time, I wasn’t complaining.

  Maybe it was just the new outlook I had adopted since the Specialist: be happy and grateful for what you have, and watch how the world opens up to you. As proof that the universe was indeed trying to be more cooperative and supportive, the Louis Vuitton photo shoot I had to do for work had been scheduled in New York the week before AJ was getting married. I got to fly home for business and stay for my best friend’s wedding. Not too shabby. Even better, we were booked at 60 Thompson, the slick boutique hotel in western Soho. Every morning I power-walked along the Hudson River Park, the narrow riverside stretch that extends from 59th Street to Battery Park and offers one of my favorite vantages of the city. In the evenings, we’d unwind in the lobby with cocktails, watching the parade of foreign guests toting their shopping bags filled with designer loot. Best of all, room service left a couple itty-bitty Fat Witch brownies on the nightstand every afternoon. I also wasn’t above plundering the housekeeping carts, eschewing the Kiehl’s bath products in favor of amassing a personal stockpile of fudgy two-bite treats. And “work” those few glorious days consisted of prepping for and then shooting Annie Leibovitz and Mikhail Baryshnikov—two artistic legends—for our latest campaign. A girl can get used to this, was the first thought that danced through my mind every morning when I got my sunny wake-up call from the front desk and flicked on NY1 to see what Pat Kiernan was reading in the papers.

  But even though the workweek was decadent and exciting, it was also draining. When my team took off for the airport at the end of the jam-packed week, I heaved a happy sigh of relief and migrated uptown. I was home! In New York! My best friend was getting married, and we were going to have the time of our lives!

  “A, you look stunning!” Of course every bride looks beautiful, but AJ was truly radiant. And she wasn’t even in her gown or makeup yet. It was the night before the wedding, and instead of having a traditional rehearsal dinner, AJ and Mitchell were hosting a casual open house in a Brooklyn Heights brownstone. It was the perfect representation of them as a couple: unfussy, fun, and all about home, family, and friends.

  “Merci, mon amie,” she replied, giving me an unguarded smile that made her blue eyes light up and her nose crinkle. It was like she couldn’t contain her joy; this was the happiest I had ever seen her—even happier than when her braces came off in tenth grade. It was so crazy to think that when I had left New York not even a year ago, she and Mitchell had only just met. Now they were mere hours away from exchanging wedding vows. You never know what—or whom—life is going to bring you.

  As the house filled up with guests, the energy progressed from relaxed to celebratory. It was a special occasion for me too—a chance to see so many people from years past and reminisce with my best friends from high school. Ben was about to sign a new band, Julie was convinced her daughter was going to be even naughtier at sixteen than she was now at four, and Elisa’s husband was producing a new show on MTV. I caught up with AJ’s aunts and uncles, most of whom I hadn’t seen since I went to Iowa with AJ as a thirteen-year-old, severely obsessed with how high I could tease my bangs and just when I would have enough to fill out a training bra. Little cousins and children of friends, amped up on M&Ms, excitedly ran around the spacious parlor rooms; Van Morrison, Alicia Keys, and Coldplay shuffled on iTunes; and the buffet table was slowly being depleted of its cold cuts, crudités, and cupcakes.

  At the end of the night, instead of rallying for a nightcap with the rest of the crew like we normally would have, AJ and I taxied back to Manhattan. She wisely wanted to get a good night’s sleep. I was her Best Girl, there to ensure her wedding weekend worked out exactly as she wanted. Besides, my feet were aching from standing all night in the new Charles Kammer lace-up heels I had bought in Paris for the wedding.

  “How are you doing, Aim?” she asked once we were snuggled between the starchy sheets and down blankets on opposite sides of the king-sized bed of her bridal suite. AJ’s compassion and sincerity had always—for lack of a less hokey term—warmed my heart. After these past few months of so little empathy or connection in my life, they were especially welcome. I was relieved to let my guard down.

  “I’m good,” I told her. “It’s definitely been a rough couple of months, but I’m hanging in there.” I listened to the taxi horns and police sirens echoing in the cavernous avenue twenty stories below, blessedly muted through the double-pane windows. A door slammed somewhere down the hall, another reveler’s night coming to a close.

  “I never even knew I could feel as depressed as I did last month in Paris,” I continued. “I hit a new low. But, who knows? Maybe the ovarian cysts were the best thing to happen to me.”
AJ was looking at me quizzically, waiting for me. “It’s been unsettling and…crappy,” I went on. “And I really don’t like thinking that there’s a possibility I can’t have kids. But at the same time, I also sort of feel like I’ve been given a second chance. I’ve had to really think about things—what my priorities are and what I want to achieve in my life—instead of just cruising along, you know? It’s like a not-quite-midlife opportunity to decide what I want to do and where I want to go from here.”

  “It’s so true, Amy. I mean, look at you,” she paused for dramatic effect. “You’re living abroad in the most beautiful city on earth. You work on Louis Vuitton’s advertising. You’re traveling every month. You’re surrounded by all this great fashion, and fabulous people—”

  “And don’t forget the mind-blowing sweets!”

  “Seriously. It’s pretty amazing.”

  “I know, it is.” I rolled on my back and gazed up at the ceiling, letting this moment of affirmation settle over me. I thought of the trips I’d taken in recent months—to London to spend time with my brother and his family, and to Nantes and Lille, two cities on opposite sides of the country that both had incredible art, architecture, and, bien sûr, sweets. I thought about how fulfilling my new friendships with Melissa, Michael, and Jo were, and also how much more I now valued the connection with my friends and family back home. I was also excited about the new community of bloggers I was becoming part of and even the fondness I had for my colleagues. I’d experienced the lowest lows and the highest highs of my life, those past months in Paris.