It may seem like a simple thing, ice for Eskimos and all that, but when in France one does like to have one’s little bit of pastry every now and then. In order to ensure that over-indulgence did not occur, we had a sort of informal rule that we’d only be tempted by the baker’s delights on days beginning with “Satur” and ending in “day”. But that wasn’t enough. A careful check of our diary will show that so far this year we’ve had barely a weekend within cooee of a bakery, so the rule had to go.
Our arrival in Nancy was particularly joyous, heralding as it did the disappearance of whatever malady had been troubling your’s truly for some time and “the rule” in a city simply brimming with specialty pastry houses. Sadly though it’s summer and everyone has closed for the holidays, so after a four kilometre hike yielded but a solitary tasty but almost too sensible mirabelle tart we had to admit defeat and began to look forward to that first weekend in August when they’d all be back.
Cheered by the thought of what might be for breakfast this morning, we braved the fifteen degree chill of a summer morning and set out for Nomexy’s finest bake house. “Back on the 8th” said the cheery sign on the door with nary a hint of apology. Holding back the hint of a quivering lip, we consoled ourselves with the thought of a creamy afternoon tea in Epinal and we know the new place beside the port has some really stunning stuff.
But when we got there that cupboard too was bare. Everyone is entitled to close for a holiday, but those big green signs seemed a bit like gloating to me, and no we won’t be waiting until the fifteenth!
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