Pastry patrons and Pierre Hermé

On Thursday night, I ate two crème brûlées (flavored with anise and pistachio) and a chocolate soufflé topped with a scoop of deliciously creamy pistachio ice cream for dinner. These were the products of our afternoon pastry class, and were created under the direction of a new teacher with ruddy cheeks and a mischievous smile. I had planned to go out to dinner after we finished up, but I am finding that it takes a will of steel to resist the parade of food that appears at the conclusion of every class. So dessert became my dinner.


Creme brulees before baking.

Dinner.

The crème brûlées here err on the creamier, slicker side of things than the ones at home. Apparently the French prefer a lighter touch in the cooking of their eggs, something I am finding surprisingly easy to embrace now that I’m here (at home, I tend to treat eggs and raw meat similar to the way I might treat a bowl of liquid mercury or raw sewage – with extreme caution and lots of hygienic measures after accidental contact).

Later that night I checked my email and found a message from a woman who had read my blog, and was wondering whether I would like to have a “blind snack” with her and her boyfriend on Friday after they arrived on a red-eye from L.A. She worships at the altar of Pierre Hermé and wanted to be the first to introduce me to his genius. I said, “Bien sur! Name the time!” and that was how I found myself gorging on extravagant, exquisite pastries in the Place Saint Suplice with two complete strangers.

Pierre Hermé’s shop is small and crowded, but it still manages to inspire a reverential hush in the clientele. It is minimalist, all sleek mahogany and dim lights, and resembles many of the fashionable clothing boutiques that I walk past but am too afraid to enter. But instead of jewels or shoes, the glowing glass cases artfully display gemlike confections and seasonal macaroon collections. A black-clad assistant will carefully retrieve your pastry with a pair of small tongs and wait respectfully while you finish making up your mind. Then your items disappear while the assistants consult about the best possible way to package your order for transport. Glass jars, styrofoam blocks, and myriad white boxes may be employed. Finally, the whole ensemble is carefully stacked in a thick white bag covered with intricate cut-outs, clearly designed to tantalize and incite envy from onlookers.

Who are these people that fell into my life and bought me divine food and then departed again? What did I do to deserve these sugary gifts from Wendy and Pierre, complete strangers until yesterday? I have decided that they are my pastry fairy godparents. As we sat in the park sampling, people kept walking by and examining our snack with no small amount of jealousy. Who wouldn’t? Each little treat was a work of art.

The feeding frenzy began with what would actually turn out to be one of my favorites: a humble little cannelé. These are all over the place but I’d never tried one before. The outside is crusty and deep brown with caramelized sugar that looks almost like lacquer. The inside is a soft, spongy vanilla-scented cake. I fell in love. Since I haven’t tried any other versions, I have nothing to compare it to, but the burnt sugar taste and the creamy interior won me over immediately.

Next up: 2000 Feuilles. Basically a Napoleon (or mille-feuille, if you refuse to be stumped by all those vowels squashed in a row), but made with feather-light praliné cream. If all Napoleons were this good, I’d eat them much more frequently. Thank goodness they’re not.

Then came Plénitude. Aptly named, indeed. Clotilde has a picture of one. I do not. I did not bring my camera to this event because I wanted to do errands first, and it is large and bulky. Please don’t hate me. Next time, I promise!

Plénitude was the group favorite. It was basically a giant lump of incredibly decadent chocolate layers, with an occasional tang of fleur de sel and hints of caramel. Actually, it was way, way more than that. I can’t believe I just called something from Pierre Hermé “a giant lump.” What kind of food blogger am I?

In fact, the giant lump was comprised of gorgeously stratified layers that ranged in color from earthy brown to near pitch black. It was mousse, it was ganache, it crackled with caramel croquant, and once in a while, a tiny flake of salt would explode across my tongue and punctuate the understated sweetness of all that deep, dark, dirty chocolate. Yeahhh.

We probably didn’t eat everything in the right order. Our last selection was called Émotion Éden and came in a glass cup (which we got to keep! Just like a Big Gulp!). It was light and poofy and filled with toothsome chunks of peach and another fruit we had trouble identifying (although the brochure on my lap mentions apricot) enveloped in saffron custard and topped with saffron gelee. Émotion Éden was very beautiful, but after all that Plénitude, it just couldn’t compete. But perhaps it will be given a second chance. I’m willing to make that sacrifice.

Wendy and Pierre sent me home with a bag of three macaroons – olive oil/vanilla, peach and classic chocolate. Unfortunately, I made a pit-stop at Gerard Mulot to pick up some bread and a nice little slice of tomato terrine for dinner before I returned to my apartment, and ended up smushing the poor, delicate macaroons in their flimsy cellophane bag.

I hardly need to tell you that I ate them anyway. And they were fabulous. Merci mille fois, Wendy et Pierre!