While wandering around through Covent Garden, you may find yourself feeling the nip of the cold London breeze blowing through the buildings, and it is then that you will surely need one thing: a pastry. To be more specific, a French cafe so cute and cozy that the wafting air from the oven keeps all gusts of cold air from even coming through the door. And the coffee tastes like it came from a bean and not the Nescafe instant jar. Oh praise the pastry gods! Thank you France for being so close that your sweet hearted love of butter, caramelized sugar, flaky crusts and decadent fillings could cross the channel and make it to my little table in London.
And so I find myself at a tiny bakery, having climbed a little staircase up to a small room with tall narrow windows. Only a few tables and chairs scatter the floor, but the walls are completely filled(not an inch between) with paintings in intricate frames. It's a designer's nightmare and my dream come true. The waitress is kind and brings me coffee, black, without the usual "are you sure?" and eye brow raise I get for not ordering a cup of coffee, white(read: a cup of warm milk that is slightly coffee flavored).
Coming in the front door, I passed the downstairs window-like a jewel box it was filled with quiche, croissants, marzipan and truffles. So many tortes, I glimpsed a plum, apricot, raspberry and pear just as I walked by. Tiered cakes and little cups of mouse, wedges of sweet cakes and square slices of savory pizza. Cheese and berries and butter and herbs...just stunning to look at, let alone devour. Jay and I read a quote from revered Spanish Chef Ferran Adria, "Could you imagine people eating a painting-if they could introduce a painting into their bodies?" That is exactly what this window of food was. A culinary painting, a masterpiece that you could experience with every sense.
I ordered a slice of the lemon torte. It arrived on a little white cafe plate with a real silver fork, quite diminutive in size-just perfect for a delicate treat for a lady trying to regain feeling in her toes, back from the cold. Creamy buttercup yellow, with a tortoiseshell-caramelized top. The crust had that perfect crinkling, flaking crush that to the ear-is an opus, a movement using only the best notes. The smell was citrus infused with vanilla bean, the toasted sugar on top giving a sweet overtone, that mixed with the seductive smell of my coffee was a perfume. The delicate weight of the slight silver dessert fork, slightly tarnished, felt so special in my hand. You do not wield clunky spoons or dinner forks at something so demure as this lemon slice of bliss. With a slow gesture I took the first bite. Beautiful. How can I convey the way the buttery-ness of the crust laid across my palate? A sip of coffee introduced a bitterness that only heightened the bright citrus flavor and caramel quality of the burnt sugar.
Completely forgetting that I am cold, I enjoy the sun coming through the tall window panes, the clinking of tea spoons in porcelain cups, the shouts of bakers and waiters filtering up the stairs...it is a perfect little place. And it makes me so happy that I have this opportunity to visit London, and that soon I will be going home, to Paris.
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