I'm a Leo. Stuck in my ways.
I'm a Leo in a new neighborhood. This means change, right?
I'm good with change, if it's the benevolent sort like a new home territory metro station.
And I like the new neighborhood. This makes my fourth neighborhood in Paris. I feel I'm honing in on something. I don't know what it is...but I'm definitely honing--
However, I have had a difficult time trying out the closest patisserie. I got spoiled last year. Paul's was one second away from my front door. Paul's is one of the best. Nobody but nobody can beat Paul's sugar bread. I went to Paul's everyday without stopping to count my blessings.
The first day I got here I didn't trek over to Paul's, though.
Instead, I trekked over to Bon Marche, which is a bit closer. In fact it's disconcertingly close, because shopping at the food section at Bon Marche is to shop at Bristol Farms. I love to shop at Bristol Farms, but feel affected and and snooty when I do so. Have I ever mentioned the three hundred dollar tenderloin I got one Christmas? That special order leg of lamb? Those andouille sausages? I shouldn't go in there--
Anyway, so too Bon Marche. Tres precious. The display of pastas is a work of art. Well, they also have THE perfect almond croissant. This almond croissant is so perfect it has to be eaten in two sittings, with candles lit and cloth napkins, and a fork and knife, it one is willing to go that far in suspending reality. It's Christmas. I never want the almond croissant to be finished.
And then the final perfection that is Bon Marche is that they pack your groceries for you--
The single scariest thing I have to do in Paris is pack my own groceries at the local grocery store. It's terrifying. The line of silent Parisians grows and grows behind me as I fumble over the exact change--the little check-out girls just love to ask for better change. I hate them. And the bags are totally impossible to pull open...but never mind that nightmare--
I'm talking bread here. The staple of life. The staple of my life in Paris.
I knew I couldn't keep going to Paul's or Bon Marche for my bread. This week-end I solved the issue by getting some from this outdoor market I went to, over Saxe-Breteuil way.
So today, I said to self "Go to corner patisserie. This is Paris, for god sake. It'll be fine."
But walking home, the long way, to check out the Seine and Eiffel Tower, and to check out the only American grocery store in town (just curious...it appears to be long gone), I passed by rue Dominique, the main street of my second apartment. And along this street was my original favorite patisserie, that had that rhubarb tarte to die for, and actually my favorite butter croissants. Hot dog, I thought. Relief flooded my prissy soul. I'll just swing by there, say hi to the old hood, and I'll be good for two days.
MY patisserie was BOARDED UP. Merde alors.
Okay though, no time for weeping. I was starving. I had perfect avocados at home just waiting for a nice pain de mie (white bread I'm ashamed to say, but such white bread!). I also wanted, no, needed, an apricot tarte--
So, I entered cautiously. It was early afternoon. A quiet place. Smelled heavenly. Assured of its Parisian patisserie self. Milo's, it's called.
I ordered my bread. Understood the salesgirl when she asked me if I wanted big or small loaf (small). Understood her when she wanted to know if I needed it sliced (no). So all was going as planned. Until I looked confidently for my apricot tarte--
The tray was empty--
Well that DID IT. The hell with life on earth if this was going to happen at the local patisserie--
And then my eyes fell on this fulsome, eggy, luscious looking custard tarte.
The tarte? Just close your eyes and picture perfection in every way.
