I shed a tear

While some say weakness is for the weak, I tend to think otherwise especially when it comes to certain foods. When I saw the movie Mozart as a child I remember Salieri, a maestro himself and Mozart’s long time rival dying and weakened with envy. I now better understand how he felt.

On a fresh and crisp autumn morning in the Marais quarter where we tend to wake up while in Paris, breakfast indoors is uneventful. So we decided to promenade in search of an outdoor café. We ventured down to the river and meandered over the Pont Neuf to the Left Bank and found ourselves heading towards Place St. Sulpice, a must respite for any lover of fountains. I remembered that Pierre Hermé’s patisserie was near by.  And although not a café, I knew we could pick up a few things and eat them on a bench. 

While I have always been a self-taught cook and loved to venture in different cuisines, cakes and pastries have always intimidated me. I have never had the patience, the required skill or focus to attempt such majestic feats. There are very few people I idolize in the culinary world, not out of arrogance, but quite simply I am happy with my poetic cooking style. When it comes to Pierre Hermé, I might as well have a picture of him on my desk, on my fridge and in my wallet.

We entered what looked like a new Boucheron jewelry boutique from the outside, and quickly realized that the inside was greatly inspired by a jewelry case. If gems and jewels are a girl’s best friend, I quickly found mine to be a dazzling array of the finest French pastries. It looked like a display of sculptures through the different art movements, each with their own design, form, color, and ornamentation.

My eyes flew wide open, and landed softly on the 2000 Feuilles (deux-milles feuilles). Pierre Hermé’s take on the classic Milles Feuilles pastry is a long-time favorite of mine and what I remember as my birthday cake as a child. Armed with a selection of pastries and croissants, we were ready to devour these temptations on the premise, but that would have been so gauche. The anticipation was building, slowed only by the packaging foreplay, something the French take very seriously, and rightfully so. Except at this point I was beyond caring for what seemed like a nuisance.

We quickly made our way to the fountain and sat on a classic bench. I began to unravel the ribbon, the flaps, the box, the tissue, and at last there it was.

A classic mille feuilles is typically rectangular in form, about 2 inches (5cm) wide by 4 inches (10 cm) long, and made up of 2 layers of pastry cream in between the pate-feuilletée. Thus the name Milles Feuilles: one thousand thin layers of puff pastry. Pierre Hermé describes his masterpiece as a harmonious succession through caramelized-puff-pastry and a mousseline of creamy pralines.

I strategically held the 2000 Feuilles so that I could approach it from the corner, with the idea of capturing the multi-layers in one bite as intended by his eminence—the experience I craved. The top and the bottom were now within reach. The crispy pastry began to flake, and suddenly the world seemed to dim as I fell eyes-wide-shut into a deep moment of heavenly bliss. Everything went into slow motion while I proceeded to go through the carefully orchestrated layers, savoring each flavor and hitting each note, from feuille to feuille through the cream. It was like symphony of flavors coming at me.

It was sheer euphoria and childhood memories of celebrating my birthday at the end of summer rushed back. I looked up at the sky and the clouds seemed to be parting to reveal the sun as if an apparition was looming; then a flock of pigeons suddenly took off from the fountain. No director in the history of cinema has been able to create such a sensory- rich experience. I was overwhelmed and fell into a state of disbelief that this could exist in something so small as a pastry. All of a sudden the cool and crisp air seemed to press my cheeks. I looked up at my partner in crime and shed a tear, a tear of pure joy. I was grabbed by the shoulders and shaken, told to get a grip. That it was only a pastry. I quickly presented the 2000 Feuilles as the only possible explanation for my numb state. Within seconds a disciple was born, justifying my behavior.

If Salieri was overcome with uncontrollable emotions, I can only imagine what a pastry chef must feel like when they are faced with the pleasures of Pierre Hermé.

I am not ashamed by the weakness I showed that day, I experienced something that I believe happens rarely. I do not search for the best of everything in life because poetry lies in the good, so when such sweetness tempts me I become a child again and lose all sense of reality.

This 2000 Feuilles was integral in the conception of the Poetry of Food memoir, I have relived it and recounted it numerous times at my dinner table with varying responses of laughter, amazement— and even ridicule.