Frank Adrian Barron - Sweet Paris: Seasonal Recipes from an American Baker in France

MY STORY STARTS WITH STRAWBERRIES. Or, more specifically, a lack thereof.

We moved to Paris in January 2012my now-husband, James, our bewildered Boston Terrier, Parker, and myselfdeparting a mild California and touching down on a blustery cold France, covered in snow.

It was to be a temporary move. James had received an interesting job offer. And since I legally wouldnt be able to work, I decided to take the time to study the language. It was all a fabulous opportunity we simply couldnt pass up. It was the City of Light, after all: magical even when iced over, and full of wintertime charm. We kicked the slush off our shoes as we entered our warm apartment for the first time and started our next chapter as Parisians.

As with any move, we spent the initial few weeks getting into the swing of what our normal life would be. That meant figuring out Jamess commute on the metro, finding parks for Parker, and doing the basics, like unpacking, setting up utilities, and most important, scoping out local grocery stores.

Around the corner from us, I spotted a Monoprix, the French equivalent of the American Target chain, and grabbed my warmest coat and a shopping list to go scan the aisles for the items wed regularly have in our kitchen. Despite still being new to French, I could find some items without any aid. Eggs. Herbal tea. Milk. Yogurt. But when it came to the fruit topping I wanted for that yogurt, I was stumped.

Strawberries were nowhere to be found.

In broken Franglais, I asked a clerk where to find them. She looked at me, confused. I assumed she didnt understand me, so I repeated my question, pronouncing it as precisely as I could. She groaned. Cest pas possible, monsieur! she responded, incredulous. Ce nest pas la saison!

I pieced together what shed said, word by word. Strawberries were not possible. It was not the season.

Strawberries... impossible? She was speaking to a man from California, where, all year round, you could find almost any fruit for every bowl of yogurt or any type of smoothie you desired. Moreover, she was speaking to an American, whose country proudly includes strawberry next to vanilla and chocolate as one of its most treasured ice cream flavors. Had she ever heard of the classic triple threat that is a cone full of Neapolitan?

To me, strawberries were standard. And I thought wed just moved to the country claiming to be the capital of all things food. I felt shockedand soon thereafter, culture shocked: The French, Id quickly find out, preferred to eat by the season, buying fruits and vegetables right when theyre harvested, when their flavor is at its natural peak. Though I was aware of this practice in theory, it wasnt how we ate where I was from, a land with everything available at any time.

It had been my faux pas (how French of me), and the moment I realized my thinking needed to shift to seasonality. Strawberries, Id learn, wouldnt appear until the end of spring or start of summer. The fresh asparagus on my list? Also not available until springtime. Oranges and clementines? Here now, but its the end of the season, so enjoy them while you can. And the figs James had requested? Gone, but back come fall.

Id have to get used to it. If my yogurt required strawberries, it would also require patience.

It was the first lesson my new country taught me.

France is a country that likes to adhere to rules. Thats the second thing I learned from living here. And these rules are never more apparent than in the French approach to food, from how you slice cheese to how you present bread (hint: never upside down, as its considered bad luck, and always directly on the table, not on a plate).

Rules also extend to snacking, or goter (pronounced goo-tay). Unlike Americans, who might be okay with snacking whenever they want, the French have a strictly defined snack time called lheure du goter. Like strawberries arriving in May and not January, there is an appropriate window in which to enjoy a snack: between 4 and 5 pm, the afterschool hour, because goter (also called le quatre heures) is traditionally meant for children being picked up from school, returning home. Its a sight I often see: When I take the newest member of our family, Fitz, for his afternoon walk, little kids run by with sticky fingers thanks to something chocolatey like a pain au chocolat brought to them by an indulgent grown-up. Ive been told its a way for kids to sustain themselves until supper, as the French tend to eat dinner later than Americans do. To be sure, the goter hour isnt only enjoyed by kids. Adults of all ages find themselves hankering for something sweet around that late afternoon hour, a holdover from childhood.

Unbeknownst to me, Id been practicing the art of goter, against the rules, early on in my time in Paris. When we first moved to the city, I took French language classes at La Sorbonne, and both before and after class, Id pick up a new-to-me pastry. That means I wasnt paying particular attention to the hour at which I was indulging. Walking from my school, located near the Luxembourg Gardens, and back over to our apartment in the Marais, I got to know all the French grands classiquesfrom the decadent Paris-Brest, a wheel of choux pastry filled with pralin-flavored buttercream and created in honor of a famous bicycle race from Paris to Brest, to the divine St. Honor, a pastry topped with cream puffs that have been dipped in caramelized sugar and named for the patron saint of pastry chefs, to the flaky chausson aux pommes, buttery puff pastry baked until golden and filled with apples. Whether the rules came naturally to me or not, Ive since become a loyal adherent to the goter philosophy. Not a day goes by, whether at home in Paris or on holiday elsewhere, that I forego the sacred ritual. In essence, its a moment to pause, a moment to focus on pure pleasure.

For me, my version of lheure du goter also extended to coffee. And I dont mean just any cuppa: I mean having a high-quality, locally roasted cup in a specialty shop. It wasnt something easy to find at the time, as coffee-shop culture was a scene that was only kicking off in Paris when we arrived. It was an odd experience to not have an excellent flat white or a beautifully poured cappuccino anywhere nearby, especially as we relocated from San Francisco, a city that takes coffee very seriously.

When I wasnt in class, Id often spend afternoons on my own in one of the two coffee spots available: Coutume, on the other side of the Seine in the 7th arrondissement, and Kooka Boora (now KB CafShop), up by Sacr-Cur. It took me two metro trainsand a half hourto enjoy either. But I had no qualms about it because it was the kind of caffeination I craved. And as these shops, and ones that soon followed, were either expat-owned or inspired by Third Wave cafs from the likes of Australia, the UK, and the US, I found in them a bubble of comfort. These were places filled not only with the best brews but also with other expats. Moreover, these shops wanted to cater to their clientele, so instead of offering ubiquitous French pastries to accompany the coffee, they put out something unique: American-style baked goods like banana bread and cookies.