Paris has always been about bread for me. The ubiquitous baguette has endlessly fascinated me ever since I first saw it as a child in a Richard Scarry book, Busy Busy world. And then there were always baguettes in a tall basket at La Patisserie at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, where we went all the time. Mostly, I remember the aroma and the crackle of the baguette, and  its unique shape.

French as a school subject had us following the Canadian la famille Vincent in France and of course, we did le petit dejeuner and baguette with “la marmelade” and cafe au lait.

Baguette is always nostalgia for Paris, more than croissant. 1989, and I spent a summer learning French at the Alliance Francaise de Paris, Rive Gauche, and finally, finally I ate Parisian Baguette. And brioche (because la famille Vincent loved brioche). Baguette sandwiches were all I could afford to eat between classes, classic ham and cheese or cheese and tomato, easily found in kiosks across the city. I made sandwiches in my aunt’s kitchen overlooking the Seine and the Eiffel for school lunches spent in the Jardin du Luxembourg, watching children sail boats in the fountain.

And mousse au chocolat, an ever-abiding memory from every home I visited in France. This was the real deal, no cream: only eggs and chocolate, the deep darker chocolate and some Grand Marniere. On my way out of Charles de Gaulle airport, I spent my last francs on a tub of the most yummy airport chocolate mousse ever. Trust the French to have really good  mousse au chocolat in plastic tubs at the airport in 1989.

On a cultural exchange to Chambery in Savoy, 1992, my French sisters Laure and Sophie tried to introduce me to Nutella. I was horrified: who eats chocolate on bread?? They stared at me like I was mental ( on hindsight I definitely was) and then they shrugged a very gallic shrug before demolishing the entire jar right there, leaving none for Claire and Florence, their younger sisters who were already at school. On a sugar high, they went for a run, while I almost collapsed in my Indian non-athletic manner, trying to appear to run beside them. More gallic head shakes later, they told me to find my way home, and took off at a sprint. I had always thought of myself as sporty, playing TT, Badminton, swimming and some school cricket and throw-ball, making the school teams and practising every day. That day I was mortified and till date I wonder if Nutella is the reason why.

That entire exchange was a lesson in sandwiches, baguette sandwiches mostly, filled with all sorts of things like potted meats, mustards, cheeses, cold cuts and preserves. Tightly wrapped in clingfilm, they survived excursions and visits to important places such as Les Charmettes, the writer Jean Jacques Rousseau’s home. Of course, as good Indians, we pined for vadas and bhajjis when it rained, and aloo curry and chapatis. By then my trip across Europe before joining the exchange had been long enough away from home that I craved spice. My French Papa Luc would always joke I was missing pepper on my ice cream and gallantly handed his wooden pepper mill to me at every meal!

Laure took me out early one afternoon from school ( we attended the local lycée) to stand in line at a little bakery in the town and buy fresh pain aux raisins. They were glorious. Maybe because she had kept this treat for me to taste with her (without the entire contingent of french and Pune students in tow) I still prefer the pain aux raisins and the memory of them to pain au chocolat. She had carefully saved up to treat me and I was touched she shared something  special with me.  Two teenagers biting into fresh-from-the-oven pains.  The raisins were plentiful, the combination of them with the fragrant bread was delicious. Simple. Tasty. So very French.

When the macaron craze hit India, I was thrilled to find an expat Frenchman’s patisserie in Pune: La Bouchée D’Or. They made the most authentic macarons this side of Ladurée. The raspberry, the pistachio, the chocolate… all simply sublime. This was before everyone began making their versions of the macaron,using artificial colouring and flavours. Luckily, La Bouchée is still here and still makes great french pastry, and their baguette is second to none.

My fortieth birthday was spent in Paris. My birthday lunch was very special, made at home by my aunt, Tata Hannelore, whom I had spent the summer of ’89 with. Tata cooked for me and my family: there was quiche, salad, kir royales. She eschewed a chocolate cake in favour of a french classic, a Le Notre tarte au citron. My genuine love for really tart lemon tarts exploded into full time addiction with this one celebration dessert. Just a slice of french sunshine and minimalism. No cream, no chocolate, no elaborate decoration. I was forty, time to shake things up a little!

On a stopover in Paris, 2017, I was treated to a lunch at Chez Allard, such a quaint little restaurant. Chez Allard is a horrendously expensive but very en vogue restaurant, serving absolutely classic French cuisine in less formal surroundings. By this I mean the place looked out of a Dumas novel, so old fashioned and charming, the kind of place for a Hemingway night visit. Less formal than a fine dining restaurant (this was no le Cirque), but the food was outstanding. We ended that meal (there were escargots, of course, terrine, and confit duck with olives) with choux buns and baba au rhum. Now the Bab’s reputation preceded itself and here, finally, I got to eat the real thing: it looked like a mighty sponge but was so much more than that, doused in alcohol and served with real french dairy cream. I swooned.

( some photos from chez Allard)

Later on in Paris, I discovered a little boulangerie near the Marais that made the most delicious little baba au rhum. Heady, how a whiff of rum can change the day.

My love for French pastry was never a thing like my obsession for hand made chocolates. I grew up eating the best classic french pastries and treats  in Bombay, we did not have soy cream and non dairy cream then. There was always a Black Forest, Pineapple chiffon, dark chocolate cake, nougat, Easter bunnies, chocolate dipped cookies and my favourite Florentines.

While in France, I generally oohed over the shop windows at the boulangers on every street. Behind large glass windows posed rows of perfectly glazed tarts with their plump raspberries, l’opera pastries, tartes au citron, custard buns and macarons. But I always saved my francs for the chocolate.

Tata Hannelore came to spend her winter break each year in Goa ( before Goa as we remember it was destroyed forever).  For over 20 years she spent six weeks in February at our little hotel in Calangute Beach.  She arrived loaded with gifts for the family : cheese, chocolate bars, perfume, spanish turron, liqueurs and other treats.  But for my mother, there was always a special gift: a very large gold paper carton of Leonidas hand made Belgian chocolate.  For me, Leonidas became the benchmark  for real chocolate, not Lindt bars or Milka, or Toblerone.  Each night, mama would carefully open the box and we got to choose one each.  It was so exciting: the aroma of real chocolate, the exotic fillings like gianduja, framboise, truffle…..my memories are of these. 

NOTES:

Pâtisserie is used to describe French pastries and the pastry shop they are sold in. Although the word is used quite liberally in English-speaking countries, in France and Belgium the law restricts its use to bakeries who employ licensed maître pâtissier (master pastry chefs). https://www.cordonbleu.edu/news/what-are-patisserie-boulangerie-viennoiserie/en

Traditional French Mousse au Chocolat, without cream https://www.curiouscuisiniere.com/french-chocolate-mousse/

Leonidas, Belgian chocolate https://www.leonidas.com/en/contact

Le Flamington, Pune https://www.instagram.com/leflamington/

Baba au Rhum recipe link https://www.food.com/recipe/baba-au-rhum-rum-baba-by-ina-garten-barefoot-contessa-153278

https://www.pierreherme.com/

https://gourmet.galerieslafayette.com/