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| Photos by Hélène |
My suggestion last week that EGD Paris bureau chief Jack Clark consider exploring pastries was poorly received by some readers, who claimed that it was bad form of me to tell a writer as skilled as Jack (to see his oeuvre, go to jackclarkbooks.com) what to do. Perhaps. Though I thought of it more as a gentle hint, part of the push and pull that goes on at any publication. Either way, Jack took the bait, producing the following mouth-watering account.
When I first visited Hélène in Paris, our walk to her favorite bakery took us past two others. At the closest bakery, the bread arrived by truck, so I understood why we didn’t stop. The second bakery, only a block away, was popular and often had a line, which I took as a good sign. Hélène refused to give it a try. We’d always cross the street and walk up a bit further to her favorite, which was also a popular and attractive looking place.
Whenever I went to the bakery by myself, one of the clerks always seemed annoyed to see me coming. It took me years to figure out what that was about and, strangely enough, that revelation happened when I was back in Chicago.
I thought the clerk’s mood might have something to do with how I ordered. Walking up the street towards the bakery, I would practice what I was about to say. “Bonjour. Une tradition, S'il vous plait,” which translates to “Good morning. A tradition, please.” This is the old-style baguette, which costs slightly more than the standard one.
The clerk would usually say, “Une?” back. I would say oui or une again and hold up a single finger to confirm that I wanted one. Half the time, she would try to sell me two and we would go through the entire dance again. This went on for years.
Even when I came with Hélène and she was doing the ordering, the clerk gave me unpleasant glances. She never tried to sell Hélène two loaves, I noticed. The bread was excellent, of course, especially to an American who’d spent half his life eating fingerprint white bread. On the other hand, I knew good bread when I found it. When I was a child my mother had baked her own bread and rolls. There’s nothing better on a winter’s day than a hot roll fresh from the oven with a dab of butter melting inside, and I’ll never forgive some of my siblings for talking my mother into going whole-wheat back in the days of the Whole Earth Catalog. The experiment never took, and she finally gave up baking bread completely. But that, of course, is another story.
The bread wasn’t the best part of Hélène’s favorite bakery, it was the pastries. Actually, it was one specific pastry, the diplomat, which the French call le gâteau diplomate.
The diplomat, a cake made from leftovers, is sold by the slice. The basic recipe is day-old brioche soaked in crème anglaise and then baked. But every bakery does it their own way. Some throw in the old pain au chocolats and croissants as well. Some use raisins or other fruits. Some add sugar. Others a bit or rum or cognac. It’s a rich dessert and too heavy for a standard bakery bag. A slice is usually placed in a white bakery carton. To insure safe passage, I usually keep a hand on the bottom all the way home.
If there are no leftovers there can be no diplomat. So it was always a special day when we stepped inside and saw one or two behind the glass. The worst days were when someone just ahead of us bought the very last slice. In Chicago, there are Harold’s Chicken murders. On those dark days when the last diplomat disappeared right before my eyes, I’d sometimes wonder if there had been any diplomat murders in Paris’s long history. Or would this be the first?
Hélène was friendly with the baker and with his wife, who also worked behind the counter. She didn’t seem to have any problem understanding me. In truth, the clerk who did have a problem never bothered me all that much — at least not after I was out the door with our bread and maybe a diplomat or two. I told myself that it probably had nothing to do with me, not really. She might have been jilted by a guy who looked like me or maybe she just hated all Americans (This was during the Obama administration, by the way, in case you’re thinking: of course she did. Who wouldn’t?). Or maybe it was just Americans too dense or too lazy to learn the local language.
One night, we were coming home long after the bakeries usually closed. For some reason, ours was still open. So we went in and yes, there were two diplomats in the display case. The baker, a friendly middle-aged guy who spent most of the day down in the basement slaving away, was by himself behind the counter. He and Hélène made small talk and then I carried the heavy box of diplomats the long block home. I think we shared one that night and kept the other for later. That’s how we usually did it. Eating an entire diplomat in one sitting is truly decadent. It might have happened a time or two but usually we managed some restraint.
The next time we walked by, our favorite bakery was gone. We decided that we’d stopped on the last night and had gotten the last of the diplomats. The baker had stayed late to get rid of what he could before he closed for good. He wouldn’t be using the leftovers to make anything.
We wondered what had happened, of course. We heard rumors of this and that, marriage, or financial trouble. I’m not sure anymore and rumors are just that. It was tough for Hélène. Losing your favorite bakery in Paris is probably somewhat like losing your favorite saloon in Chicago. There are plenty of others nearby but it will never be the same. She missed the baker and his wife and, of course, we both missed the diplomats.
We switched to the bakery across the street. It took Hélène awhile to come around but she finally agreed that their traditional was almost as good as the one from our old bakery and she liked their brioche. Their pastries were good too, but not exceptional, and there was no diplomat.
Back in Chicago, I ran into my friend Francis, who was born in Paris. “Did you figure out the number thing yet?” he asked.
“I can count,” I said. “But I only go up to sixty-nine. After that, I think you guys are nuts.”
In French 70 is soixante-dix, in other words 60 plus 10 (the plus is silent). Eighty is quatre-vingt, 4 times 20. Ninety is quatre-vingt-dix, 4 times 20 plus 10.
If there are no leftovers there can be no diplomat. So it was always a special day when we stepped inside and saw one or two behind the glass. The worst days were when someone just ahead of us bought the very last slice. In Chicago, there are Harold’s Chicken murders. On those dark days when the last diplomat disappeared right before my eyes, I’d sometimes wonder if there had been any diplomat murders in Paris’s long history. Or would this be the first?
Hélène was friendly with the baker and with his wife, who also worked behind the counter. She didn’t seem to have any problem understanding me. In truth, the clerk who did have a problem never bothered me all that much — at least not after I was out the door with our bread and maybe a diplomat or two. I told myself that it probably had nothing to do with me, not really. She might have been jilted by a guy who looked like me or maybe she just hated all Americans (This was during the Obama administration, by the way, in case you’re thinking: of course she did. Who wouldn’t?). Or maybe it was just Americans too dense or too lazy to learn the local language.
The next time we walked by, our favorite bakery was gone. We decided that we’d stopped on the last night and had gotten the last of the diplomats. The baker had stayed late to get rid of what he could before he closed for good. He wouldn’t be using the leftovers to make anything.
We wondered what had happened, of course. We heard rumors of this and that, marriage, or financial trouble. I’m not sure anymore and rumors are just that. It was tough for Hélène. Losing your favorite bakery in Paris is probably somewhat like losing your favorite saloon in Chicago. There are plenty of others nearby but it will never be the same. She missed the baker and his wife and, of course, we both missed the diplomats.
We switched to the bakery across the street. It took Hélène awhile to come around but she finally agreed that their traditional was almost as good as the one from our old bakery and she liked their brioche. Their pastries were good too, but not exceptional, and there was no diplomat.
Back in Chicago, I ran into my friend Francis, who was born in Paris. “Did you figure out the number thing yet?” he asked.
“I can count,” I said. “But I only go up to sixty-nine. After that, I think you guys are nuts.”
In French 70 is soixante-dix, in other words 60 plus 10 (the plus is silent). Eighty is quatre-vingt, 4 times 20. Ninety is quatre-vingt-dix, 4 times 20 plus 10.
“Couldn’t you guys invent a couple of other words?”
He ignored me. “You guys are nuts too,” he said. “I’d go to Wrigley Field and the hot dog guy would come by and I’d order two and he’d only send down one. I finally figured it out. I’d hold up my thumb and my index finger and they’d only see the finger. In France the thumb is one. The index finger is two. Here for some stupid reason the index finger is one.”
“Oh, that explains it,” I said, and I realized why the clerk had a problem with me. I was holding up my index finger which she saw as two while saying one in my incoherent French. She probably didn’t know any English so she couldn’t tell me what I was doing wrong.
And I was so convinced it had something to do with my accent, pronunciation, or her old boyfriend, that I never considered that it was a completely different language that was causing the problem.
A few months after his bakery closed, we spotted our old baker in one of the neighborhood cafes having a drink with our new baker and, before long, he was working at the new place. I can’t pretend I knew him. I didn’t. And, like at the old place, he spent most of his time down in the basement with the ovens and the other bakers. But he seemed to have a better time working for a paycheck than he’d had running the show across the street. He really seemed to fit in at the new bakery. The staff obviously liked him. He and Hélène would always say hello and it was clear to everyone that we were two of his old customers.
We had hopes that his diplomat might appear behind the glass one day but it never did.
Paris is like any big city, people come and go, and half the time you never know what happened to them. But one of the clerks at the bakery went out of her way to tell us that our old baker had died suddenly after a heart attack. She was clearly heartbroken. We were too.
Months later, we found another diplomat up the street, in a bakery that was run by a mother and daughter. They were both beautiful women who carried themselves with that regal stature that the French do so well. They weren’t unfriendly. They were cool, not cold, and both had a good sense of humor, and eyes that could suddenly sparkle. You could see that the younger woman would one day look just like her mother, that her mother had once looked just like her.
Hélène actually liked the new diplomat better than the old one. I was loyal to the old one. Maybe because it had been my first.
The daughter eventually got married and started a family. She had no interest in taking over the bakery, her mother told Hélène. Soon the bakery was sold — another diplomat bites the dust — and was replaced by a place that doesn’t use sugar. That was all it took for Hélène to write them off our list.
What Hélène misses even more than the diplomats are the people that came with them, joking with the mother and the daughter, small talk with the old baker down the street. To me, the worst aspect of not speaking French is missing all those tiny interactions with people whose names you might not know, quick exchanges that can sometimes brighten even the dreariest of days.
There are about a dozen bakeries on the mile-or-so-long street where we do most of our shopping. We’ve tried them all. We still buy our traditions at the place we call our bakery. But we stop here and there for this, that, or the other thing. We’re always on the lookout for another diplomat.
When we’re out of our neighborhood, we’ll stop at interesting looking bakeries. Even if we don’t see a diplomat, we’ll ask if they make one. Usually the answer is no. But every so often we get a yes. But, of course, with diplomats, it’s always a question of timing. You have to get lucky.
One day, while I was back in Chicago, Hélène told me that one of the neighborhood bakeries had turned over and the new baker made an excellent chausson aux pommes. This is a staple of French bakeries. It’s their version of an apple turnover. Most of the ones I’ve tried are nothing special. Half the time you’ll find industrial apple sauce or apple puree inside. But a few years before, Hélène had found an excellent one near her job. Sometimes I’d take the 45-minute, two-train morning commute with her, just so we could sit on a bench around the corner from the bakery to have a couple for breakfast. Unlike the typical chausson aux pommes these came crusted with cane sugar but what really made them special was the freshly cooked apples inside. Now Hélène had found one almost as good closer to home — the same sugar-coated crust, the same fresh apples.
The bakery has specialties from the Alsace region of France, including kouglops and
bretzels, but they also have the French standards, the pain au chocolat, the croissant, and of course, the chausson aux pommes.
Hélène was in the bakery recently without me. She spotted an interesting looking pastry. It was dark and heavy looking. “What’s that?” she asked the clerk.
“It’s. ..“ he said something she couldn’t understand over the lunch rush. His next words were clear. “It’s made with leftover kouglops and cream.”
“It sounds like a kouglop diplomat,” Helene said.
“I couldn’t have described it better,” the clerk said.
Hélène bought a slice and we split it right down the middle. It was different than the other diplomats — that’s always the case — but it was truly excellent, dark and dense, with a rich flavor, heavy from those old cream-soaked kouglops, with a soft texture that felt lighter than pudding. Half was more than satisfying. I was disappointed to hear that Helene had left a few others behind at the bakery. What was she thinking? But we rejoiced. After a couple of bad years, we have a neighborhood diplomat again. But there’s a catch. The bakery usually has lines for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They seldom have anything left over. “We almost never make them,” the baker told Hélène.
But we have hope again. We can bide our time and wait for the next huge storm or any halfway-decent national disaster, something that might keep people out of the bakeries and leave some kouglops behind. While the rest of the country is transfixed by scenes of whatever catastrophe has transpired, the same footage running over and over again, we’ll go to bed early, and set the alarm so we’re waiting outside when the bakery opens.
Even if they don’t have the diplomats we crave, we’ll get the first chausson aux pommes of the morning, with the fresh apple inside still warm from the baker’s oven.
There’s only one better way to start the day.
He ignored me. “You guys are nuts too,” he said. “I’d go to Wrigley Field and the hot dog guy would come by and I’d order two and he’d only send down one. I finally figured it out. I’d hold up my thumb and my index finger and they’d only see the finger. In France the thumb is one. The index finger is two. Here for some stupid reason the index finger is one.”
“Oh, that explains it,” I said, and I realized why the clerk had a problem with me. I was holding up my index finger which she saw as two while saying one in my incoherent French. She probably didn’t know any English so she couldn’t tell me what I was doing wrong.
And I was so convinced it had something to do with my accent, pronunciation, or her old boyfriend, that I never considered that it was a completely different language that was causing the problem.
A few months after his bakery closed, we spotted our old baker in one of the neighborhood cafes having a drink with our new baker and, before long, he was working at the new place. I can’t pretend I knew him. I didn’t. And, like at the old place, he spent most of his time down in the basement with the ovens and the other bakers. But he seemed to have a better time working for a paycheck than he’d had running the show across the street. He really seemed to fit in at the new bakery. The staff obviously liked him. He and Hélène would always say hello and it was clear to everyone that we were two of his old customers.
We had hopes that his diplomat might appear behind the glass one day but it never did.
Paris is like any big city, people come and go, and half the time you never know what happened to them. But one of the clerks at the bakery went out of her way to tell us that our old baker had died suddenly after a heart attack. She was clearly heartbroken. We were too.
Months later, we found another diplomat up the street, in a bakery that was run by a mother and daughter. They were both beautiful women who carried themselves with that regal stature that the French do so well. They weren’t unfriendly. They were cool, not cold, and both had a good sense of humor, and eyes that could suddenly sparkle. You could see that the younger woman would one day look just like her mother, that her mother had once looked just like her.
Hélène actually liked the new diplomat better than the old one. I was loyal to the old one. Maybe because it had been my first.
The daughter eventually got married and started a family. She had no interest in taking over the bakery, her mother told Hélène. Soon the bakery was sold — another diplomat bites the dust — and was replaced by a place that doesn’t use sugar. That was all it took for Hélène to write them off our list.
What Hélène misses even more than the diplomats are the people that came with them, joking with the mother and the daughter, small talk with the old baker down the street. To me, the worst aspect of not speaking French is missing all those tiny interactions with people whose names you might not know, quick exchanges that can sometimes brighten even the dreariest of days.
There are about a dozen bakeries on the mile-or-so-long street where we do most of our shopping. We’ve tried them all. We still buy our traditions at the place we call our bakery. But we stop here and there for this, that, or the other thing. We’re always on the lookout for another diplomat.
When we’re out of our neighborhood, we’ll stop at interesting looking bakeries. Even if we don’t see a diplomat, we’ll ask if they make one. Usually the answer is no. But every so often we get a yes. But, of course, with diplomats, it’s always a question of timing. You have to get lucky.
One day, while I was back in Chicago, Hélène told me that one of the neighborhood bakeries had turned over and the new baker made an excellent chausson aux pommes. This is a staple of French bakeries. It’s their version of an apple turnover. Most of the ones I’ve tried are nothing special. Half the time you’ll find industrial apple sauce or apple puree inside. But a few years before, Hélène had found an excellent one near her job. Sometimes I’d take the 45-minute, two-train morning commute with her, just so we could sit on a bench around the corner from the bakery to have a couple for breakfast. Unlike the typical chausson aux pommes these came crusted with cane sugar but what really made them special was the freshly cooked apples inside. Now Hélène had found one almost as good closer to home — the same sugar-coated crust, the same fresh apples.
The bakery has specialties from the Alsace region of France, including kouglops and
bretzels, but they also have the French standards, the pain au chocolat, the croissant, and of course, the chausson aux pommes.
Hélène was in the bakery recently without me. She spotted an interesting looking pastry. It was dark and heavy looking. “What’s that?” she asked the clerk.
“It’s. ..“ he said something she couldn’t understand over the lunch rush. His next words were clear. “It’s made with leftover kouglops and cream.”
“It sounds like a kouglop diplomat,” Helene said.
“I couldn’t have described it better,” the clerk said.
Hélène bought a slice and we split it right down the middle. It was different than the other diplomats — that’s always the case — but it was truly excellent, dark and dense, with a rich flavor, heavy from those old cream-soaked kouglops, with a soft texture that felt lighter than pudding. Half was more than satisfying. I was disappointed to hear that Helene had left a few others behind at the bakery. What was she thinking? But we rejoiced. After a couple of bad years, we have a neighborhood diplomat again. But there’s a catch. The bakery usually has lines for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They seldom have anything left over. “We almost never make them,” the baker told Hélène.
But we have hope again. We can bide our time and wait for the next huge storm or any halfway-decent national disaster, something that might keep people out of the bakeries and leave some kouglops behind. While the rest of the country is transfixed by scenes of whatever catastrophe has transpired, the same footage running over and over again, we’ll go to bed early, and set the alarm so we’re waiting outside when the bakery opens.
Even if they don’t have the diplomats we crave, we’ll get the first chausson aux pommes of the morning, with the fresh apple inside still warm from the baker’s oven.
There’s only one better way to start the day.
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