This story has been told a bunch of times and I was reminded on each occasion that it is never as funny as it is in my mind, but anyway, this picture brought back a rush of memories. One warm Summer not so long ago, I was staying in a beautiful apartment near the Bastille with a beautiful women from Denver ... It was my routine to run out in the morning before she awakened and buy fresh bread, flowers, maybe a cheese or two and some just picked cherries for a late, lazy breakfast ... It took courage, of sorts, to hop in a fast-moving line of locals as they bought their bread and jogged off to the underground and work ... My presence slowed the line as I pointed to my still warm baguette, fumbled and held out an open hand full of various coins and bills ... I yearned to "blend' and to order and pay with the same rhythm as those who speed through this ritual every morning ... I practiced and practiced, culling away the Southern accent from my meager French ... The day came when I would "blend."
I didn't go to my regular bread shop but cruised over to a boulangeries-pâtisseries de France, a fabulous bakery, near the home of Victor Hugo, located under the arcades of Place des Vosges. It is one of the most beautiful and comfortable locations in Paris. As I marched into the shop, I announced my command of the French language by greeting everyone in the small shop with a perfectly pitched, "Bonjour! Bonjour!" It is the custom to sing out your "hello" in these neighborhood shops. Not to is rude.
My target was a
Chaussons-aux-pommes, the Apple slippers or "turnovers" as we know them. They are beautifully decorated in pasty designs and smell like heaven. I ordered in French! I paid in French! I was a brother of General Lafayette and as French as a boy born in Newnan, Georgia could be at that moment. I received my très bien! My bon appétit! But I passed on the white, crisp tissues and bag used to conserve the oven heat in this treasure. I planned to walk out to the garden square, sit with the ghost of Jean Valjean and have my way with this hard-earned delight.
The warm smell flowed up around my head. It was the gastronomic version of a beautiful woman standing in the back-lit doorway in a thin
négligée. I could not wait. I immediately chomped down as I backed away from the counter.
The next few seconds were filled with searing pain from a four-inch splash of 3,000 degree apple filling and juice that shot up my cheek! I hopped around the shop like an eleven year old girl who had just seen her first really big spider. I saw my woman's eyes drop and I could actually hear the counter staff's eyes role in their sockets. I was Gerald Ford prancing down the air-stairs of Air Force One and falling flat on his face. I would have given anything at that point to be able to disappear or go up in a blue flame.
The wonderful woman by my side regained our composure - she had enough for both of us. She dabbed away the Pomme Flambé, gazed, for brief second, at the remarkable red strip up my face and never mentioned it again. I know where the shop is. I will go back there some day, retrieve my dignity and take my time with the foreplay required by a hot French apple.
C'est la vie
Posts
