Paris, My Sweet (27 page)

In the States, there's a little less fanfare around French toast. The bread isn't soaked so much as quickly dipped, and then it's normally topped with just butter and maple syrup. Unless you know where to go.

Before Paris, I had fallen for a seriously ridiculous version of French toast in New York. Ben and I loved eating shamelessly together, had been momentarily delusional, and thought we'd get into one of the most popular Sunday-brunch destinations in the city—Gabrielle Hamilton's restaurant, Prune—at exactly high noon. But after we were told the wait was ninety minutes, not even the promise of the 33 LP-sized Dutch pancake or eggs Benedict on a delicate English muffin could sway us. We regained our wits and decided to seek a new option. Not even half a block down the gritty East Village street, we stumbled upon a new spot: Joe Doe.

Started by a young couple from Long Island, Joe Dobias and Jill Schulster, the restaurant is tiny (with room for just twenty-six), rustic, and filled with intimate charms. Antique furniture and framed family photos decorate the walls and bar, while an open kitchen in the back corner makes it feel like you're in Joe and Jill's own home.

I don't know if it was all so quaint and pastoral that I thought I could actually smell country air as we situated ourselves at the table in the front window or what, but I ordered granola. More likely, I had been bingeing on sweets all week and was now just trying to be “good.” Whatever the reason, it was silly. Not even two minutes later, the table next to us got their meals, and that's when I saw it: a platter with two honking slabs of caramelized bread, drowning in a sea of syrup, buried under a pile of bananas and whipped cream, and dusted with a delicate layer of confectionary sugar. It was Joe's challah bread French toast topped with bananas Foster.

“Um? Excuse me?” I flagged down our waitress. “Is it too late to change my order?”

She followed my gaze, which was desperately resting on my neighbor's French toast, and took pity on me. “I don't think so. Let me just check.” She walked back to the open kitchen and consulted with Joe. His eyes remained planted on the stove, his hands busy with tongs and spatulas. I realized I was holding my breath until the waitress turned around and gave me the thumbs up from across the room. I exhaled.
Yes!
I was spared that miserable feeling of restaurant order remorse.

Chef Joe evidently understands the power he wields in the kitchen. “There has never been a better topping,” the very opinionated chef said of his New Orleans-inspired Foster sauce, made with brown sugar, butter, and dark Meyer's rum. I had to agree with his declaration. Twenty minutes later, when Ben and I were digging into our dishes, I was pretty sure I'd never had French toast quite so soddenly delicious.

It wasn't just the bananas Foster topping. It was the whole package. “The bread is super important,” Joe instructed. “Originally I was a brioche guy, but a few years back, I discovered challah bread.” He cuts thick square slices from a giant loaf and does a quick ten to fifteen second soak in a batter of eggs, cream, milk, cinnamon, and vanilla extract. Unlike the stale baguettes used in France that better absorb moisture, the fluffy challah will get soggy if it soaks too long.

Then it all comes together: a custard-soaked plate of carbs beneath a wonderfully sweet sauce, sliced and caramelized bananas, plus whipped cream for good measure. “It should be colossal in order to fit the brunch bill!” Indeed, it was. It was a meal in and of itself. There was no way anything that big and decadent could have been stomached as dessert after a proper dinner in Paris.

The curse of being an expat, I realized, is that you belong to two cities and, as a result, neither entirely. I had been asking myself either-or questions, but the answers were not black and white but a million shades of Parisian gray. I could have French toast for breakfast and
pain perdu
for dessert. Live in Paris and love New York. Or vice versa. While straddling two cities had made me see life in stark dualities, it had also given me the chance to indulge in the best of both worlds. Maybe I
could
have my gâteau and eat it too.

I was late to meet Melissa. We'd now known each other a year, but it was more like eighteen in “expat years” and I knew she was a friend for life. We were going to see
Sex
and
the
City
2
on the Champs-Élysées and, as excited as I was to see Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha whooping it up in Abu Dhabi, I couldn't quite muster the enthusiasm. My contract deadline was fast approaching, and I still didn't know what to do. Was Paris really my dream life and the most important place to be? Or did I belong in New York?

On the Paris side, I had my jump-started career, the city's beauty and architecture, budding new friendships, more European travels, and macarons. In New York, I had my friends and family, my East Village apartment (still furnished, waiting for me), a comfortable lifestyle, a culture in which I felt a sense of belonging, and cupcakes. After all the months of internally debating what to do, I was no closer to an answer.

But as I Vélib'ed across the magnificent Place de la Concorde, now one of my favorite and most symbolic places in the city, the clouds parted, sending dazzling rays of sunshine in a 180-degree arc. I had a cache of bonbons in my bag just as I had nearly two years earlier when I pedaled this same path on my Tour du Chocolat. The sky behind the clouds was the most brilliant blue. I knew at that moment that I was truly seeing the light—that staying in Paris, if only for another six months, was the right thing to do.

I thought of the pure happiness that coursed through my veins whenever I rode one of those Vélib's. The automatic smile that lit my face when I turned the corner and saw the Place Vendome in the morning. The ecstasy of that very last, hot and melty bite of a Nutella street crepe.

I thought of the hours I'd spent around different dinner tables and the number of
boulangeries
and pâtisseries that had seduced me with their warm baking smells and visions of bright, beautiful cakes. I thought of the infinite strolls I had taken through Paris and the distances I had traveled beyond the city's borders. I thought about sipping cocoa with Mom and Bob at Angelina, of touring the kitchen of Du Pain et Des Idées with Isa, and of introducing Chris, Dad, the girls, and all my other friends who had visited me to the unforgettable flavors and exquisite pleasures of Paris. There were the French lessons and cooking classes. The professional challenges and dating follies. And, as unbearable as all those lonely, soul-searching nights had been, they were now deeply embedded parts of me—war wounds. Coming to Paris had changed my life. Maybe in a way that I couldn't entirely articulate or define, but in a very important way nevertheless.

I parked the Vélib' and ran to meet Melissa in the line stretching up the Champs. Wow, who knew chic Parisiennes were so devoted to the antics of fabulous New Yorkers? I saw Mel and waved. I was smiling. I had a spring in my step again. I had finally made my decision and sealed my fate. I was going to stay in Paris…if only for just a little while longer.