The world’s captivation with all things French, and particularly all things Parisian, is not one I would ever wish to dispel. Read: The key to Julia Child’s success hid in plain sight And so, though Delphine and David are particularly generous hosts, their way of cooking and eating is-remarkably-not altogether out of the ordinary in France. But it is equally true that I’ve never been in the home of a Parisian who was not a natural cook, or one who didn’t finish dinner with a little something sweet, effortlessly made and casually served. They wisely leave patisserie to the pâtissiers-people who, after long apprenticeships, studied at the venerable schools, honed their skills, and built their reputation. What they don’t do is labor over the grand and intricate patisserie that is what we’ve come to think of as French baking. But perhaps more important, they bake far more simply than we imagine, and mostly from a range of classics that lend themselves to seasonal riffing and improvisation. Having lived in Paris for many years as a child, I knew that the French bake at home far more than we imagine. Yet it was almost impossible to remember when any of the measuring and mixing had actually happened. It was in bed at the close of our three days together that I noted the sheer amount of baking that had been done. We ate with immense relish and pleasure, but all of the elements seemed part of a larger ensemble. Everything was more or less served at room temperature, so there was no rush to the table. Read: Chef’s Table: Pastry isn’t about pastry A quick dark-chocolate cake was made before a hike that ended with a swim. The next morning brought café au lait and piping-hot madeleines, straight from the oven. Salads were assembled, fish grilled, wine bottles opened, verbena leaves picked for a late-night tisane. John and I had brought large loaves of miche, those great rounds of sourdough, and a tote full of good cheeses from the city. Nathan, the eldest son, had made canelés in copper molds for a late-afternoon snack, and Lila had put a bowl of madeleine batter in the fridge to rest overnight. Yet somehow, by our first supper, Delphine and David’s daughter, Lila, had thinly sliced fruit for a dough her mother had made and rolled, while her father had made a tarte tatin. Nobody hovered over a hot stove nobody fretted about their recipes. Of course, little did we know then, in the spring of 2020, that more than a year would go by before we’d be able to gather together once more. We were, we sensed, finding a way to not say goodbye, while full of the happy certainty that we would tend to our friendship. It was the sort of moment in a deep friendship when you realize how important ritual is in celebrating a bond. And so it was that I came to understand the secret to French baking one weekend in East Moriches, on Long Island, with our friends Delphine and David and their four kids.Īfter several years in New York, they were moving home to Paris, and my husband, John, and I were bereft. Small epiphanies seem to arrive when good food is on the table and great friends are gathered around it. This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday.
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