For 11 days, I didn’t touch pastries. I had a slice of wonderful strawberry Charlotte at Lionel and Sylvia’s dinner party two Saturdays ago. And a crummy chocolate muffin on the flight to Uganda. And then… no sweets the whole week in Africa, save for some dark chocolate I smuggled in exactly for that reason.
I returned to Paris, not exactly lighter in my Lanvins, thanks to all the beer and fries that did fill my belly in Africa. But I certainly wanted to take advantage of the African sweets embargo and see how long I could go sans pastries in Paris.
I did well. I arrived home Sunday; nothing. Vegan Monday, nothing. Dates with friends, nothing, nothing. I mean, to be fair, I had spots of dark chocolate and dried fruit along the way. But sporadically and modestly. And never a cookie or cake or viennoserie.
I walked into an infamous petit dej at the office Friday morning. This one was nowhere near the scale and decadence of previous petit dej’s but you know me: if it is there, I can’t not eat it. So I had a homemade crepe, slathered with Nutella. A croissant, slathered in Nutella. And a half a pain au chocolat.
That was before noon.
At lunch, I had a lemon pie, sans crust, with beaucoup crème and praline shavings—the finale to a decadent lunch at Daniel Rose’s new Spring. Quite a way to break a sweets-free streak.
And Saturday wasn’t much better: a croissant on the train to London; toasted banana bread and a couple macarons in the city; and a Cadbury Wispa on the way home (what? you don’t expect me to leave London without some crappy chocolate, do you??)
And Sunday. Brunch at a friend’s house. Copious amounts of delicious quiche and inventive salads and wine, wine, wine were followed by homemade tiramisu—a giant bowl from which I served myself twice—and a couple dark chocolate mendiants for good measure. Holy merde.
So now that it’s August and everywhere from Boulangerie Julien to A La Mere de Famille to Stohrer are closed, maybe I’ll get back to some form of moderation. Maybe.