Paris, My Sweet (22 page)

“We've been so lucky,” I said as our laughter died down.

“So lucky, I know.” AJ and I looked at each other in a moment of shared history. I could see her as a gangly, eager-to-please seventh grader; a nervous college freshman with her yellow Chevrolet packed full of boxes; a star shimmier on the dance floor of Passerby. No matter what, we would always be soul sisters.

“Let's get some sleep,” I suggested, reaching for the bedside light. “Tomorrow's kind of a big day, you know.”

“You're right,” AJ smiled. “Night, Aim.”

“Good night. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Between getting my hair and makeup done and finding a strapless bra, to-the-knee slip, and sheer black stockings—things I had desperately needed for the wedding but were much less intimidating and stressful to shop for in New York than Paris—and also attempting to make it to Billy's to get AJ a wedding-day banana cupcake, I had to finish writing my toast. Despite a brief run on the junior high debate team, public speaking has never been my forte. In fact, I hate it. And even though this toast was for my best friend, the thought of standing beneath the soaring ceilings of the Yale Club's main banquet hall, where the eyes of 120 live guests plus the framed portraits of five Yale-educated U.S. presidents would be watching me try to be equal parts charming, funny, sincere, and eloquent, made me feel as nauseous as if I had “accidentally” devoured all 1,080 calories inside a pint of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food ice cream.

But writing the toast was cathartic too. Having started it thirty-six hundred miles away gave me some literal distance to reflect on a near lifetime of friendship with AJ: the search for love in both of our lives, the romantic ideals and fantasies we had formed—and that had formed us along the way. Our notions of who the perfect partner was had changed over the years, from cool New England prepsters in our teens, to worldly and artistic charmers in our twenties, to just feeling lucky if we could meet someone sane and gainfully employed without children, a drinking problem, or latent misogynistic tendencies by the time we were in our midthirties.

While I had been one of those girls who had her bridesmaids' and babies' names picked out at the age of eighteen, at thirty-seven my life clearly looked nothing like the one my younger self had envisioned. But sometimes you want things just because you think you're supposed to. And sometimes it's the things you never even knew you wanted that give your life the most meaning. At the very moment that AJ was diving into the dream life we had fantasized about growing up together, my heart had led me further afield. My heart had taken me to Paris.

The Anglo-Franco mélange of two cultures that I was experiencing in my personal life could also be seen in the rising popularity of certain sweets around Paris. In fact, the English baker Rose Carrarini's individual carrot cakes—the shape and size of Campbell's soup cans, topped with a measured layer of cream cheese frosting—had become icons of
la
cuisine
anglaise
ever since she and her French husband, Jean-Charles, opened Rose Bakery in 2002 on the then little-trafficked rue des Martyrs in the ninth arrondissement.

Prior to that, the couple had already cooked up a successful food empire in London called Villandry. After growing and selling that business, they decided to venture south for a new chapter: a smaller bakery where they could be more hands-on.

It's sort of ironic that carrot cake came to symbolize their nouveau eatery as Rose didn't have formal pastry training, nor does she have a sweet tooth. But what she and Jean-Charles did have was a passion for healthy, organic ingredients, a keen sense for the next new thing, and some strong connections. Rose's sister-in-law is Rei Kawabuko, the designer behind Comme des Garçons, and they created half the menu for Colette, the hypercool concept store on rue Saint-Honoré that lured international hipsters with its selection of bespoke
baskets
, electronic music, and art-house books. Even though the couple was intentionally vague about where and when they would be opening their bakery, word got out and trendy Parisians were queuing before it even opened.

Just as the couple's intention was always to dissolve the distinction between home and restaurant cooking by offering simple, wholesome food, they also blurred the boundaries of the kitchen and dining room of their rue des Martyrs canteen. The dishes—vibrantly colored market salads, square-shaped quiches with organic veggies spearing the eggy surfaces, and rows of marble cake, citron polenta cake, pistachio cake, plus the cylindrical carrot cakes—were arranged on a short counter immediately to the right of the entrance. This gave customers—who stood hovering over the display as they inevitably had to wait for a table—a chance to peer at what might soon be in their bellies.

Rose's dalliances in sweets began back in London when she couldn't find pastries and desserts that she wanted to eat and decided she'd have to do it herself. As soon as she took on the challenge of making pastry dough at Villandry, she realized there are many factors that go into successful baking besides just following a recipe. How you handle the dough and when you take it out of the oven can affect the taste as much as the ingredients that you put into the mixing bowl. She'd touch her pastries until they felt the right consistency and taste them until they were perfect to her palate.

It wasn't just technique where Rose proved to be a natural. She was, and is, a genius recipe developer. She taught herself through practice, by listening and responding to customers' desires, by reading the likes of Elizabeth David and Richard Olney, and by drawing inspiration from great chefs such as Alice Waters. She started with classic recipes and then twisted them to see how she could transform each dessert into something different—something better. Letting her instincts lead the way, she kept playing with recipes, adjusting measurements and altering ingredients, which, more often than not, meant reducing the amount of sugar. For example, she cut the sugar in her now-famous carrot cake by half of what the original recipe called for. As a result, Rose's desserts are intentionally healthier than most. This philosophy is “the culmination of years of our taking out what is not necessary” is how she puts it in her delicious cookbook
Breakfast, Lunch, Tea
.

For the better part of a year, I had watched Anglo eateries popping up all over Paris. Just like on my visits to New York when I discovered new French bakeries, it brought me an uneasy mixture of excitement, pride, and serious annoyance. It was comforting to see familiar desserts, but it was jarring and bizarre too. After all, who wants to eat carrot cake when there are black currant macarons
,
raspberry-rose
millefeuilles
, and triple chocolate terrines studded with caramelized Piedmont hazelnuts?
Pas
moi.
I was flummoxed as to how Parisians could be seduced by a totally unsexy dessert. But there it was: this humble cake of shredded root vegetables had made quite an impression on the Frenchies.

“I think it goes to show you, some of the best things in life are worth waiting for.” I was nearly done delivering my toast. My voice had stopped quivering halfway through, I was standing taller, with more confidence, and I think George W. even winked at me in empathy from his portrait on the banquet room's wall. “So everyone, please raise your glasses—here's to AJ and Mitchell!” After two minutes of sucking in my gut before all the guests, I exhaled. The MC plucked the microphone from my sweaty palm and I fled to the safety of my table for eight, where a ninth chair had been crammed in so I could sit with my four best coupled friends. With the toast behind me, it was time to party.

It was one of those weddings that starts with everyone looking coiffed and civilized but quickly spirals into a roiling sweat-fest. Mitchell had spent weeks putting together a playlist that married his passion for indie '80s music with AJ's devotion to disco. As evidenced by the packed dance floor, it appealed to AJ's still-spry grandma as much as all us “kids” from high school days. With each hour, more mascara was smeared, more updos came tumbling down, and more neckties were tossed on the now-empty dinner tables. There were blistered feet, torn pantyhose, and more than one air guitar battle. It was brilliant.

“Yeah, Paris!” I excitedly shouted to Tom, one of AJ's friends from her stint in Washington, D.C., whom I had bumped into while getting another glass of prosecco at the bar.

“Wow, that's pretty awesome.”

“Yeah, I love it. It's amazing.”

“I bet the food's incredible,” Aunt Val said when we were both catching our breath after pogo-ing to Kris Kross.

“Oh-my-God-
in
-credible,” I gushed. “I mean, it's like, how can
an
apple
taste so delicious? Everything—the baguettes, the butter, the wine, the pastries—is just so flavorful, it's insane.”

“How are the men?” two of AJ's college girlfriends wanted to know. We were in the restroom, trying to salvage our matte complexions but were resigning to the fact that a fresh application of lipstick was about as good as it was going to get. “Bahh…” I dramatically shrugged my shoulders and immediately recognized that—
sacré bleu!
—with that simultaneous utterance and shrug, I was mimicking a French mannerism that drove me crazy back in Paris! I shook my head at the question and myself. “Let's just say that I haven't exactly figured the men out.”

Without a date that night, I was floating—free, happy, proud, and excited. I could flit about and talk to everyone. For the first time in a very long time—definitely the first time in Manhattan, city of searching for Mr. Right—I didn't care about being single. So I didn't have a fabulous plus-one at my side. I had a fabulous
life
back in Paris. I was enjoying how everyone responded to those two simple syllables when they fell from my lips: Pair-iss. They sighed, swooned, and became starry-eyed. Or maybe that was just how it made me feel.