Crème Brûlée
From her Travel Journal:
I had not planned to spend my birthday alone in Paris.
A missed flight had stranded me in the city for one more night, but I put on my favorite dress and decided that if Paris intended to keep me, Paris could treat me to dinner.
I ended up at one of the city's most storied restaurants, La Tour d'Argent.
I was personally served by the owner, Claude Terrail, who entertained me as though I were a queen whose arrival they had been expecting all evening. Each course appeared with a sense of ceremony. Every detail felt deliberate.
No meal is ever complete without dessert, so we shared what he called "the best crème brûlée in Paris" on the restaurant's rooftop, basking in the glow of the Parisian lights.
Beneath a thin sheet of caramelized sugar, I could see pale custard waiting at the edges of the dish. The sugar still held a trace of the flame's warmth as I lifted my spoon and tapped the torched surface.
I knew Paris would teach me how to cook. I did not expect it to teach me how to listen.
There is a sound a spoon makes when it breaks through the top of crème brûlée. It was the smallest sound on the roof, yet I heard it clearly above the wind and the din of traffic.
One tap, one crack and a rush of cool vanilla custard waiting underneath.
I had tasted many beautiful things, but this dessert demanded something from me. I had to break the surface before it revealed itself, turning the anticipation of the first bite into a ritual of its own.
As we shared dessert and gazed admiringly at the city, the owner offered a philosophy I have carried with me ever since: "There is nothing more serious than pleasure."
Parisian crème brûlée was the kind of dessert and pleasure worth remembering and sharing.
Au revoir,
