Paris, My Sweet (16 page)

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.