So, here I am, an ex-New Yorker, ex-Parisian, living in Chicago. And what's one of the first things I want to do? Find a bakery, a bakery that smells good, that looks good, that feels cozy, that has yummy delicious fabulous croissants and pains au chocolat and croissants aux amandes and... you get the idea. I could go on and on.
Living in Paris, it was always fun, and crucial, to scope out the neighborhood one found oneself living in to find the epicerie that was open late into the night, the cafe that would become a second home, with wonderful cafes cremes and hopefully some good food and fun people, and the bakery. My last sojourn in that city landed me in a lovely quartier, the canal st. martin, nested in a gorgeous little apartment on the top floor with four sunny balconettes overlooking the canal, and the best cafe bistro in Paris, as far as I was concerned, catty corner from my front door.
I only needed a boulangerie/patisserie.
I found one, around the corner, on a small angled street that ran directly behind mine, at the corner. It was old fashioned, a lovely little work of art, with painted ceilings and walls, gilded detailing, and artisanal bread and goodies. I went there most mornings, walking in the sun, the jingle bell that rang when a customer walked in, sniffing the air, the high-pitched-voiced madame thanking each customer, insincerely, as they left. I bought croissants aux amandes, sugary, crispy, oozing almond paste, hopefully cooked enough so that the almondy filling was browned where it seeped out of the pastry, if they had them. If not, it was a pain au chocolat, or a palmier mmmmmm if I really craved the sugar-butter crispiness, or one of the little savory breads stuffed with cheese and bacon that were the house specialty, or a lowly croissant.
Now, the lowly croissant is the really telling piece of French pastry. The lowly croissant is the one that informs you of the bakery's quality. If it is crisp and buttery on the outside, light and ethereal on the inside, something that is a delight to bite into the end of, the crunchy layers dissolving into butter in the mouth, then you can be sure that all will be good.
My bakery was the bakery of bakeries. Only one other that I know in Paris ever approached its light touch with butter pastries, and that was the first one I ever knew. It, by the way, outgrew its tiny storefront long ago and moved into much more elegant and expansive digs in the trendier than thou Marais. But that's another story...
My bakery excelled. All of the breakfast pastries were fantastic. I would buy my little paper parcel of them, one or two or three, depending on how hungry I was and how long I had been out of bed, and stroll around the corner to take my barstool at the bar of Chez Prune, the greatest of all Parisian cafes-bistros. The room was flooded with light from the windows on the Canal and on the street, the bar was convivial, and my guys, my lovely guys, made every day an adventure. Hugs and kisses from many attractive Frenchmen every morning/afternoon I went in did nothing to quench my good mood. Delicious cafe creme, unctuous and frothy, appeared miraculously in front of me, a newspaper was slid in front of me, and I unashamedly inhaled my delicious pastries, punctuated with sips of my three, sometimes four, cups of coffee.
Delicieux.
Memories that actually make me wince in pain now. In New York, it wasn't too bad -- there are many lovely bakeries in the city and though during my most recent brief sojourn I didn't develop a favorite morning routine with any of them, I have had the good fortune to eat many a wonderful pain au chocolat, croissant aux amandes and plain old butter croissant over the many years I have lived there, on and off.
My hopes were high. I moved into my gorgeous coach house in the Roscoe Village neighborhood and began the search. A strange little Hispanic bakery on Roscoe appealed to me but ultimately disappointed. Starbucks is a joke, with their reduced fat offerings -- how can you have a good reduced fat breakfast pastry, what with the butter and the sugar and the flaky yumminess therein?
And then, one day, down by Damen, I spotted a natural bakery, with a spectacular sign outside, a huge glass window in front, and the assurance that natural butter and sugar were used in the products. Aha! I had struck gold. I tried a croissant (no pain au chocolat that looked edible -- theirs are some kind of weird hybrid croissant shaped entity with chocolate stripes on the outside, nothing that should have the right to be called a pain au chocolat) one day, during a frenzied shopping spree, and was pleasantly surprised. Yum! It was delicious. I decided I had to go back and buy a bunch, freeze them, and heat them up, one by one, each morning, for our ritual breakfast in bed.
And so, last weekend, we went to the Mexican joint next door for lunch, and when we were finished I told Mike we should pick up some of the high-quality croissants next door.
In we went. Mike approved, "It looks like a cafe in Amsterdam," he said happily. I asked how many croissants were left and the girl behind the counter told me there was one left. "Only one?" I asked, filled with disappointment. She nodded, looking sad. "Okay, I'll take it," I said. One was better than none, I thought.
So I get my croissant and she rings it up -- $4.09. Mike is cracking up, telling me that I have been fucked. I am amazed. Did it really cost that much the last time? I couldn't remember. I had to ask if it really was $4 a croissant. The girl behind the counter again smiled sadly, even a bit uncomfortably, assuring me that, yes, that was the price. Oh my god, I'm thinking. Is that possible? Is it possible that in Chicago a good croissant actually costs $4? I know I will never buy another croissant there again.
I mean, really, that's simply ridiculous.
And, to add insult to injury, it was a bad croissant. Not buttery and flaky and ethereally light. Just a kind of ordinary croissant. An ordinary croissant for $4.
Hmmmm.
We went to Tony's supermarket and I bought a large plastic container of mini-croissants. When we got home, I took one out and put it in a 325 oven for about 15 minutes. It was delicious.
So much for the pretentious little overpriced bakery. The scene is a little yuppie, the pastries are ordinary, the prices are outrageous. I think the bread might be good...
Mike says: "Bend over, baby. I think they just fucked you."
Living in Paris, it was always fun, and crucial, to scope out the neighborhood one found oneself living in to find the epicerie that was open late into the night, the cafe that would become a second home, with wonderful cafes cremes and hopefully some good food and fun people, and the bakery. My last sojourn in that city landed me in a lovely quartier, the canal st. martin, nested in a gorgeous little apartment on the top floor with four sunny balconettes overlooking the canal, and the best cafe bistro in Paris, as far as I was concerned, catty corner from my front door.
I only needed a boulangerie/patisserie.
I found one, around the corner, on a small angled street that ran directly behind mine, at the corner. It was old fashioned, a lovely little work of art, with painted ceilings and walls, gilded detailing, and artisanal bread and goodies. I went there most mornings, walking in the sun, the jingle bell that rang when a customer walked in, sniffing the air, the high-pitched-voiced madame thanking each customer, insincerely, as they left. I bought croissants aux amandes, sugary, crispy, oozing almond paste, hopefully cooked enough so that the almondy filling was browned where it seeped out of the pastry, if they had them. If not, it was a pain au chocolat, or a palmier mmmmmm if I really craved the sugar-butter crispiness, or one of the little savory breads stuffed with cheese and bacon that were the house specialty, or a lowly croissant.
Now, the lowly croissant is the really telling piece of French pastry. The lowly croissant is the one that informs you of the bakery's quality. If it is crisp and buttery on the outside, light and ethereal on the inside, something that is a delight to bite into the end of, the crunchy layers dissolving into butter in the mouth, then you can be sure that all will be good.
My bakery was the bakery of bakeries. Only one other that I know in Paris ever approached its light touch with butter pastries, and that was the first one I ever knew. It, by the way, outgrew its tiny storefront long ago and moved into much more elegant and expansive digs in the trendier than thou Marais. But that's another story...
My bakery excelled. All of the breakfast pastries were fantastic. I would buy my little paper parcel of them, one or two or three, depending on how hungry I was and how long I had been out of bed, and stroll around the corner to take my barstool at the bar of Chez Prune, the greatest of all Parisian cafes-bistros. The room was flooded with light from the windows on the Canal and on the street, the bar was convivial, and my guys, my lovely guys, made every day an adventure. Hugs and kisses from many attractive Frenchmen every morning/afternoon I went in did nothing to quench my good mood. Delicious cafe creme, unctuous and frothy, appeared miraculously in front of me, a newspaper was slid in front of me, and I unashamedly inhaled my delicious pastries, punctuated with sips of my three, sometimes four, cups of coffee.
Delicieux.
Memories that actually make me wince in pain now. In New York, it wasn't too bad -- there are many lovely bakeries in the city and though during my most recent brief sojourn I didn't develop a favorite morning routine with any of them, I have had the good fortune to eat many a wonderful pain au chocolat, croissant aux amandes and plain old butter croissant over the many years I have lived there, on and off.
My hopes were high. I moved into my gorgeous coach house in the Roscoe Village neighborhood and began the search. A strange little Hispanic bakery on Roscoe appealed to me but ultimately disappointed. Starbucks is a joke, with their reduced fat offerings -- how can you have a good reduced fat breakfast pastry, what with the butter and the sugar and the flaky yumminess therein?
And then, one day, down by Damen, I spotted a natural bakery, with a spectacular sign outside, a huge glass window in front, and the assurance that natural butter and sugar were used in the products. Aha! I had struck gold. I tried a croissant (no pain au chocolat that looked edible -- theirs are some kind of weird hybrid croissant shaped entity with chocolate stripes on the outside, nothing that should have the right to be called a pain au chocolat) one day, during a frenzied shopping spree, and was pleasantly surprised. Yum! It was delicious. I decided I had to go back and buy a bunch, freeze them, and heat them up, one by one, each morning, for our ritual breakfast in bed.
And so, last weekend, we went to the Mexican joint next door for lunch, and when we were finished I told Mike we should pick up some of the high-quality croissants next door.
In we went. Mike approved, "It looks like a cafe in Amsterdam," he said happily. I asked how many croissants were left and the girl behind the counter told me there was one left. "Only one?" I asked, filled with disappointment. She nodded, looking sad. "Okay, I'll take it," I said. One was better than none, I thought.
So I get my croissant and she rings it up -- $4.09. Mike is cracking up, telling me that I have been fucked. I am amazed. Did it really cost that much the last time? I couldn't remember. I had to ask if it really was $4 a croissant. The girl behind the counter again smiled sadly, even a bit uncomfortably, assuring me that, yes, that was the price. Oh my god, I'm thinking. Is that possible? Is it possible that in Chicago a good croissant actually costs $4? I know I will never buy another croissant there again.
I mean, really, that's simply ridiculous.
And, to add insult to injury, it was a bad croissant. Not buttery and flaky and ethereally light. Just a kind of ordinary croissant. An ordinary croissant for $4.
Hmmmm.
We went to Tony's supermarket and I bought a large plastic container of mini-croissants. When we got home, I took one out and put it in a 325 oven for about 15 minutes. It was delicious.
So much for the pretentious little overpriced bakery. The scene is a little yuppie, the pastries are ordinary, the prices are outrageous. I think the bread might be good...
Mike says: "Bend over, baby. I think they just fucked you."
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