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A quiet lesson in living
A Woman in Paris Taught Me To Eat Cake
My most indelible memory of that trip is that woman
A drizzly October afternoon in Paris. My husband and I have arrived on the train from Avignon and then dragged our luggage along wet streets and crowded sidewalks from the Gare du Nord station to our hotel in the Latin Quarter. It was farther than we thought, and we’re exhausted, but it’s still too early to get into our room.
We leave our bags with the concierge and head out in search of refreshment. This being Paris, we don’t have to go far. Directly across the street is a tiny patisserie and espresso shop. We order cremas and a croissant to share and gratefully settle at one of the small tables near the window.
The place is a miniature gallery of bakery art. There are no paintings or photographs, only small individual shelves placed at staggered heights on the walls. Each shelf bears a single cake. Every cake is embellished with painterly skill, with craft befitting a fine jeweler.
Other than that, no piped-in music, nothing to distract from our creamy coffees and the croissant that shatters into exquisite, buttery crumbs the moment we touch it.
“Why didn’t we get two?” I ask my husband, who only smiles. I already know the…
