He Worked in a Laundromat. I Was a Coffee-Fetcher. But We'd Always Have Paris.
One Paris winter, we discovered "La Farandole de Gourmandises." Later, when things weren't going so well for either of us, he reminded me of our shared joy in a letter. It made a difference.
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Today—a little story about how the memory of a lavish dessert I once enjoyed in France helped sustain me through the worst job of my life. Plus—how to bring that dessert to your table (I’ve simplified it, bien-sûr).
When I was living in New York, my first job was a pleasant little position in a French bank, where I was a bilingual secretary. Because it was a French company, I got nearly four weeks of vacation my first year. I went to France for three of them, over Christmas and New Year’s.
Even on my meager clerical salary, I was able to dine in absolute splendor night after night. It was a historical fluke—this was winter 1984/85, when our U.S. currency hit a soaring high of over 10 Francs to a dollar (imagine now if a dollar equaled something like two-plus Euros—yes, it was that much fun). In New York, I struggled to make rent, but in Paris, for three weeks, I had francs to burn.
I had the great luck to travel for part of my vacation with my former instructor of French, whom I had studied with when I lived in Quebec for a summer, and who had become a friend. His name was Richard, and of course, his first language was French. Nothing I ever did before or since has helped improve my French as much as traveling these few weeks with him. I can’t count the times I’d say something in decent textbook French, and he’d gently suggest recasting it in a way a true French speaker would say it. I can remember sitting over breakfast one morning in our hotel, him refusing to pour me any more coffee until I could pronounce the Champs Élysées correctly. Now, every time I say shahwns-ay-lee-zay, I think of him.
We traveled through Paris, Strasbourg, and Brussels, then back to Paris; he was as much of a food-lover as I, and together we enjoyed many culinary “firsts” on this trip: foie gras and choucroute garnie in Alsace, the Belgian beers gueze and kriek in Brussels; and many, many things in Paris, from croque madame sandwiches to expensive liqueurs, like Armagnac and eaux-de-vie.
On the last night, before I was to head back to New York and he to London, where he had a temporary teaching assignment, we went to a bistro on the Boulevard St. Germaine, near our hotel in the Latin Quarter. We dined splendidly as we had throughout the trip, but we were both down to our last francs. When it came time for dessert, we counted up our remaining coins and bills, put back in our pockets what we needed for our return trips, and decided we could order the most expensive and elaborate thing on the dessert menu—something called La Farandole de Gourmandises, which roughly translates as The Dance of Delicacies. The plate brought a bit of all kinds of French desserts—a fruit tart, a custard dessert, a chocolate cake, an opera cake, a variety of pastries.
We lingered as long as we could over the Dance of the Delicacies. It was as if we knew then that we’d never be in a similar spot in our lives again: young, flush, and in Paris. Generations of North Americans have found themselves in this lucky place, and now it was our turn. We didn’t want our time to end.
The next year didn’t go well for either of us. Richard returned to Quebec, where he couldn’t find a teaching job; for a while, this gifted teacher ended up working in a Laundromat. I was lured away from my relatively pleasant secretarial job at the French bank to a promising-sounding but in fact dreadful job as at a high-end fashion magazine. It sounded glamorous, but in reality, most of my days were spent fetching coffee, cigarettes, lunch, and car services for an editor who was hardly the mentoring type.
In one letter, he said he thought about that farandole de gourmandises now and then. “Essaies ça devant la peine,” he advised: Try that when things get hard.
Richard and I wrote often, sometimes reminiscing about our trip, sometimes sharing our present-day disappointments. In one letter, he said he thought about that farandole de gourmandises now and then. “Essaies ça devant la peine,” he advised: Try that when things get hard.
Indeed, I did think of our trip, and that lovely dessert, now and then. On my bleakest days, the beautiful memory mostly felt fatalistic—our own wistful version of “We’ll always have Paris.”
Yet I grew to realize that Richard meant it another way, too. I think he knew that because we had discovered that things like farandole de gourmandises were out there in the world, we’d forever search for ways to find more. We wouldn’t always be stuck in places where they were so far out of our reach. He had faith. And he was right.
How to Bring La Farandole de Gourmandises Home
This is a lovely dessert to serve friends—set a tray of great delicacies in the center of the table, and let everyone help themselves a volonté (as much as they wish). And no, I do not by any means suggest that you knock yourself out making all those little delicacies! It’s highly unlikely that a French host would do so.
I ascribe to the “make some/buy some” approach. Check out my post on how I put the above platter together.
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What a wonderful and SWEET story of lasting friendship and savored joy. 💋
What a lovely story. I was visualizing it all and remembering my own salad days; ah, youth! But (snapping back to attention/current day), I shall serve a similar dessert platter at my next gathering—thank you for the suggestion!