Later in life and once I had enough resources, I made it my mission to recreate a breakfast that defined my initiation into the ways of the world, literally. When I was 20, I moved to Europe and my first stop was Paris. After a very long transatlantic flight and taxi to the our hotel located on the border of the red light district, I would be ushered into the breakfast room that changed my life and beliefs about the world completely. That first European breakfast would be a vivid memory for the rest of my life.
The breakfast room was a small bright room with huge old windows hung with lace curtains. The morning light of the gray Parisian morning filtered through the backwards lettering that spelled Hotel Des Arts. The tables were old, with linoleum tops, the table legs resting on a painted floor. The room was old, vintage, but one of the cleanest rooms I’d been in. The aroma of fresh robust coffee filled the air with underlying tones of fresh bread and steamed milk. I felt incredibly fatigued by jet lag and hungry from lack of a real meal for about 24 hours. A waitress came to the table and asked for my drink order in French. After I gave her my order, a basket containing a fresh baguette and croissants were placed on the table with fresh butter and a pot of strawberry preserves. Small containers of plain white yogurt were placed on the table and then a pot of steamed milk and a silver teapot filled with steaming coffee. It didn’t seem like much compared to the choices I had at home, but once I partook of the this Parisian repast, I found it was delicious and satisfying in a wonderful way. It was simple, but completely gratifying. I was full and the fatigue was slipping away. The flavors of coffee, hot milk and patisserie with fresh butter and jam blended perfectly. Later, I found out that this was the way the French lived. Creating their own unique blends of delicious and natural foods from ancient recipes and traditions. Cuisine that satisfied the soul.
That started a train of thought that would not leave me for the rest of my life. I was determined to recreate that first Parisian breakfast. Once I returned home, I would seek out bakeries in grocery stores, restaurants and freestanding establishments to find the perfect croissant and baguette. Thankfully about 20 years into my search, French culture hit the US with the opening of a famous coffee chain based out of Seattle and specialty grocery store that went national. The grocery delivered the patisserie, pain au chocolate, in particular, via the frozen food section. I could buy the frozen treat and have it baked and ready by the next morning. Of course, it was nothing compared to the real thing found only in the morning in Paris, but it was amazing how after eight hours of rising through the midnight hours that buttery, flaky crusts actually came out my Southern California oven. It seemed there were a thousand layers of delicious buttery dough that melted in my mouth. The last layer, a thick ribbon of dark chocolate lay slightly melted but holding it’s form. The perfect ending to the delicious pastry.
For the coffee, the new coffee chain opened, bringing espresso to the United States. So finally I had most of my ingredients for that mystical French breakfast that plagued my memories and created a longing that went on for years. The last ingredient was a plain, unbelievably creamy and tangy French yogurt. I found that most of the plain yogurts here were Greek and too thick. The European style yogurts didn’t really capture the simple and pure style of those first yogurts. I tried Kefir, goat yogurt, you name it, I tried the gamut.
Then finally and unknowingly, the yogurt that I had dreamed of for 30 years was in my fridge and I had no idea it was there. I knew I had just bought yogurt, but I didn’t think it would be ‘the one’. I was having a lazy day and didn’t feel like putting my glasses on at the grocery store. I asked the young clerk if he saw a plain cup-sized yogurt in the case. He found me one and said , “this is the only one that we have left, it’s our store brand and I’m not too sure you’ll like it. It’s low fat too, so I’m not sure you want this. ” I really wanted a plain yogurt in a cup, so I took a couple of cups from him and stored them in the fridge without a thought when I got home. The next day, I sat down to breakfast and opened a cup of that very American, no frills plain cup of low-fat yogurt. I looked into the cup and immediately felt a twinge of nostalgia and faint feeling of recognition. This yogurt appeared runny, but creamy and it clung thickly to the sides of the cup. An aroma similar to a dairy milking room wafted up from the cup. Memories of the Parisian breakfast room began to appear. I dipped my spoon and tasted the French imposter. The yogurt slid over my tongue with satin creaminess and tanginess that I hadn’t tasted for 30 years! It was ridiculous the joy that I felt over that generic yogurt. It was one of those funny little jokes that life will play on us every once in awhile. Searching everywhere in vain for something that was right under my nose. Maybe, over the years, I just didn’t recognize that taste from that long ago, but for some reason, my mind wanted to believe it and that made me really happy. I decided to go with it and the wonder of discovering the missing link I needed to recreate that life changing experience from years ago.
So that’s how I managed to recapture that wonderful first morning in Paris. The quest is over and the idea no longer plagues me. I didn’t have to leave that wonderful memory behind and now every morning I can have a little bit of Paris.
