Paris, My Sweet (26 page)

A year ago, I'd felt I had nothing to do with my Parisian stint happening—Allyson had walked into my office, not the other way around. But maybe it
had
been me. Maybe it was something like
guided
fate
. Maybe it was possible to want something so much, for so long, without even consciously realizing it, that finally fate had to listen and cooperate. Maybe I was in control of my own fate, steering myself, if only subconsciously, toward the life I was meant to live? Maybe Jo and Sarah
and
I were all right. (Fate, 2.5; Control, 2.5?)

With that thought, I decided to drop the agonizing debate and just enjoy the moment of being at a rowdy bar on a Saturday night.
You're a better dreamer than philosopher
, I told myself.
Let
the
answers
remain
mysterious
. The DJ was spinning Motown. The smell of beer was both cloying and delicious. There were cute boys in the room. Things were beginning to get good.

“How about that bartender's body?” I asked, to the appreciative nods and sighs of my friends.

But of course my mind wouldn't rest so easily. I had a decision to make. I was an American in Paris—an American
in
love
with Paris—and yet I still couldn't decide where my heart, my
life
, belonged. I was torn between loving Paris and missing New York. It seemed the grass was always greener and the sweets sweeter on the other side of the Atlantic.

Partly what had gotten me through the months since my last visit home was the knowledge that my time in Paris was limited. My second CDD—c
ontrat
à durée déterminée
—expired at the end of June, just a few months down the road, and I had been planning on returning home then. I drew comfort from this (
au
revoir, lonely nights!
) and was even more motivated to make the most of every day in Paris, knowing it wasn't forever.

But suddenly, I wasn't so sure. Was I really done with Paris? (
One's never done with Paris
…a little voice inside my head chastised.) Would my life be better back in New York? (
Debatable, in and of itself…
) Did I have to make a choice? (
Yes, otherwise drive yourself utterly insane.
) If coming to Paris had been fate, guided or otherwise, I realized at least I was in total control of what happened next. I could choose to sign another short-term contract, or maybe even go full-time in Paris and remain indefinitely. My choice.

My heart had been telling me one thing for months: to return to my family and friends back home. But summer, my favorite season, was on the horizon. Did I really want to leave and miss the 10:00 p.m. sunsets that provided several extra hours for Vélib' riding and drinking rosé along the canal? To deny myself a few more months of morning pastries, wonderfully billowy and blissfully warm from the oven? And what about work? Writing for Louis Vuitton, in Paris, was about as good as it was going to get. Did I really want to walk away? No. And yes. Yes and no. I simply couldn't decide. So I started creating checklists, debating which of these two decadent cities was the right choice:

Long, leisurely dinners. Dozing in the sun along the Seine. Sitting with friends and watching the world go by. In Paris, you dream, you pontificate, you light another cigarette. You're supposed to just
be
.

In New York, you can't just be. But you can be anything or anyone you want.

Of course I had always known how dazzling Paris is. But to actually live there and walk the streets—with the massive plane trees and ancient cobblestones, the rose-tinted street lamps, the green bookstalls, and golden limestone façades—well, the French know a little something about seduction.

But in New York, you're swept away by everything and everyone around you: pedestrians, taxis, buses, street vendors, blinking neon signs, little dogs, big dogs, and, oh, the freaks everywhere! To walk the streets of New York is to know what it means to feel
alive
.

Thick, white spears of asparagus. Plump, juicy duck breasts. Eggs with neon orange yolks.
The
salted
butter.
With some of the purest ingredients and most celebrated recipes and cooking techniques in the world, there's little better than dining in Paris. You linger forever, indulge in course after course, bite after bite, while keeping pace with lovely regional wines and being charmed by the wait staff (if they're not bristling at having to work).

But in New York, you get a scene served alongside dinner. You get madcap creations and unique techniques, ever-surprising menus and colorful creations. The only problem is, you're also guilted into ordering more alcohol, more food, more, more, more to jack up the bill. (“That's it? You know, the plates are pretty small here…”) Then you're pressured to eat quickly so they can cram in as much business as possible that night. And don't forget to tip your actor/artist/model/carpenter/hipster waiter 20 percent. Or else.

Ah, French wine. I had developed the habit of drinking a glass—Chinon, Bordeaux, Côtes du Rhône,
peu
import
—nearly every night. And whenever I traveled home to New York, I was reminded of how lucky I was to do so. In Manhattan, the average glass of wine starts at an outrageous $12 compared to
3 or
4 in Paris. And that's for a glass of mediocrity.

But, oh, how I missed a good cocktail. I was lucky to live near Experimental in Paris, where the drinks were as delicious as they were creative. But if I had a centime for every lousy sidecar I had, I'd be a very rich girl indeed.

Needless to say, I had sampled some of the best sweets in both New York and Paris. At one time, I thought there was nothing better than Momofuku's cornflake, marshmallow, chocolate chip cookie. Until I bit into Pierre Hermé's exquisite chocolate and salted caramel
Plenitude
Individuel.
I thought I'd miss the blueberry-studded muffins from Thé Adoré. But then I fell for Du Pain et Des Idées's flaky croissants and escargots. From cupcakes to cocoa, my head spun from the comparisons, and my internal debate raged on:

Bagels or baguettes?

Peanut butter or Speculoos?

Taxis or Vélib's?

Manolos or Repettos?

Oversized sunglasses or oversized scarves?

Diners or cafés?

Downtown or Left Bank?

Empire State or Eiffel Tower?

Bergdorf or Colette?

Carrie Bradshaw or Charlotte Gainsbourg?

New York or Paris?

Should I stay, or should I go?

From every angle it was a draw—and I was exhausted. The mental acrobatics, zinging back and forth, yes or no, stay or go, were getting me nowhere. Maybe I'd just have to let fate decide, after all.

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.