In her new book Destination Moon, Kate Reid shares the full-throttle passion, personal challenges and life-changing decisions that took her from a degree in aerospace engineering and a position with a Formula 1 team to a career in pastry, leading to the opening of the now-famous Lune Croissanterie. But before the croissant triumph, another pastry won her heart. In this extract from the book, she shares how she ended up in Paris, chasing a chocolatine (pain au chocolat).
When I fall in love, I fall hard. It’s an all-consuming affair that leaves little room for anything else. Not all love stories are the same, but the tale that follows is my story of love at first sight. And true love, at that.
Indulge me as I wind the clock back to 2010. I was following a blog centred around Paris food culture, and in a recent entry the author had detailed a new book about the best patisseries and boulangeries of Paris. As well as the hot scoop on where to procure the best éclairs, St Honoré, galette des rois and Mont Blanc, the publication presented more like a coffee-table book. It appeared to include vibrant photography throughout, as well as the generous inclusion of a couple of dozen recipes: treasured specialties of each of the featured patisseries.
Thrilled to discover that the local Library had it in their catalogue, I wasted no time, determined to get my hands on it immediately. The librarian handed me a book from a shelf behind the desk, so new the spine hadn’t even been cracked – ah, the pleasure of being the first to open a new book. I held it in my hands and took in the cover. The Ladurée religieuse à la rose et à la framboise, photographed in all its perfection, highlighting the intricate detail of the vanilla buttercream, delicately piped around the smaller choux bun that sat on top like a crown. I didn’t want to reveal one more single detail until I was back in the cosy confines of my loungeroom.
Back home, coffee in hand, I settled crossed-legged on the floor, the book positioned square in front of me. What I did next is uncharacteristic. Typically, I’m a woman of logic and process: beginning to end, A to Z, left to right. Start to finish. But in this moment, I gently slid a fingernail between two random pages somewhere in the middle of the book and, with reverence, carefully opened it.
The book fell open, revealing a photo depicting a couple of dozen chocolatines (also known as pain au chocolat), arranged in neat rows on a wicker-edged tray. A tessellation of tight golden spirals, each hugging two batons of rich dark chocolate. The centre of the pastry spirals was light blonde, alluding to generosity in the layers of butter, suggesting a doughy, just-cooked texture. In contrast, the outermost layer had magically transitioned to a lustrous deep golden brown; hidden depths of flavour captured in caramelised, flaky, delicate shells.
The image was spellbinding. Hypnotising. It was as though I could smell the butter through the page, feel the sensation of the shell shattering as I took a bite.
In that photo, an aerodynamicist’s brain might also have seen aerofoil sections, sketched to represent the flow of air around the object, many thin lines depicting air particles tracing a path around the original shape. Art representing motion.
The image was spellbinding. Hypnotising. It was as though I could smell the butter through the page, feel the sensation of the shell shattering as I took a bite. Inside, the warm, soft, paper-thin folds of pastry would be pleasingly tacky, and then the slight resistance as my teeth would finally reach the semi-set chocolate at the core of the pastry. In that first glance, my future with those pastries flashed before me, in cinematic brilliance.
Shoes laced up again, I retraced my steps back to the shops in Camberwell. This time though, the intended destination was a travel agent. Blowing in off the street, all guns blazing, I took a seat and announced to the slightly startled girl behind the desk that I wished to book a flight to Paris.
Kate Reid in Paris.
Fast forward several months. (I’m now in Paris)
The day had finally arrived. I’d had that photo of the chocolatines on the brain for months. I’d obsessively gone back to it, time after time, and stared longingly into the buttery spirals. I’d imagined the moment we would meet, in person, for real. It would be the best pastry I’d ever eaten. Our first meeting had to be one to remember. After all, this was a story we were going to tell our grandkids.
I set out early that morning for the 10th Arrondisement, a weird mix of excitement, anticipation and first-date nerves. Butterflies. I’d loved the pastries of Ble Sucre, Ladurée, Le Fournil de Mouffetard and Des Gâteaux et du Pain, but none of them was the singular force that had drawn me to Paris.
Whether it was pure coincidence or my subconscious writing my own epic love story, I chose Pont des Arts to cross the Seine to the right bank. Also known as the Love Lock bridge, couples on romantic trips to Paris had begun a tradition of attaching engraved padlocks to the railings each side of the bridge, then throwing the key into the Seine as a sign of their committed love. Next, I made my way past the iconic glass pyramid of the Louvre, tracked through the trendy cobblestone streets of Le Marais lined with galleries and tiny quaint cafés, crossed the epic Place de la République, and finally found myself on Rue Yves Toudic.
Located on the ground floor of a Haussmann-style building, Du Pain et des Idées occupied the sharp corner site. From a distance, I first caught sight of the duck-egg-blue shopfront, accentuated with ornate hand-painted mirrors, brass detail and gold-leaf lettering on the shop window. A vintage picnic table sat underneath the awning on the sidewalk. The whole scene could easily have been straight out of nineteenth-century Paris (or a Hollywood movie).
As I approached the boulangerie, I noticed the small, orderly queue forming out the door. Beautiful French women, elegantly (and effortlessly) dressed head to toe in designer wear; hot French dads holding the hands of their perfectly behaved designer children; tourists with cameras strung around their necks, clutching maps or guidebooks. Each individual patiently waiting their turn, whether it be a daily ritual or an item on a bucket list, finally about to be crossed off.
Until now, this had been a textbook case of unrequited love. These pastries didn’t even know I existed.
This is it, I thought. The moment has come. We are finally going to meet each other.
I dutifully got in line behind a hot dad and a designer child and patiently waited my turn, shuffling a step closer every minute or two. If I’d been enchanted by the shop façade, once inside the boulangerie, the sensory overload went up several notches – I’d somehow walked through a portal from normal life into a magical place where the air was no longer air. It had been replaced with butter. And not just butter, but butter mingled with the toasty smell that can only come from flour that has experienced searing heat, plus that distinctive eggy sweetness of crème pâtissière bubbling away in a kitchen out the back.
At some point I sensed that we were in the same space; I looked to my right, and there they were. Those perfectly formed golden chocolatines, stacked artfully on an antique ceramic platter, their spirally ends teasing all whose eyes dared to glance in their direction. And all of a sudden, I was one of the five golden ticket-holders in the Wonka Chocolate Factory, beholding not just the chocolatines but the wonderland of pastry that surrounded them on the counter. Half-a-dozen varieties of escargot: classic pain au raisin, chocolate and pistachio or lemon and nougat; a platter laden with chaussons aux pommes concealing the perfectly caramelised apple inside; a bread-and-butter pudding affair majestically labelled the Tendresse aux Pomme: huge wedges of bread with a thick, dark crust; brioche loaves studded with pearl sugar; and, of course, a Jenger-esque presentation of croissants that would have made Escher weep.
Distracted by immense overstimulation of the senses, my feet independently and obediently continued their dutiful shuffle forward. At some point, a twinkly laugh snapped me out of my buttery trance. I found myself standing face-to-face with a beautiful, petite redhead, smiling widely at me from behind the counter. “Bonjour mademoiselle! Qu-est-ce que vous désirez?” My rusty schoolgirl French – which had been flexed well beyond its ability in the preceding days – thankfully understood that she was asking what I would like to order.
In no way ready to make my selection, still star-struck by the entire encounter, I stumbled over erroneous French in an attempt to explain that months ago I had seen a photo of their chocolatines in a book, and that one seemingly innocuous event had caused an avalanche, leading me to book a trip to Paris and, finally, to find myself standing in the very place the photo had been taken. Apparently, my French was not good enough to relay the tale, but sensing that it was a tale worth hearing, she ducked out the back and returned with a man dressed head to toe in baker’s whites.
Introduced as ‘Chef’, Christophe explained in perfect English that as well as the head baker, he was also the owner of the establishment, and due to stints in America and Australia, he spoke fluent English. Excited to be able to tell the story in a language that would do it justice, I rattled off the series of events that had led to this extraordinary moment.
Maybe he was thrilled by my story, or perhaps he simply understood the importance of true hospitality, but what Christophe did next was a defining act of generosity. Starting at the escargots, he selected a citron nougat, picking it up delicately with a little square of greaseproof paper then deftly wrapping it in an origami-like fashion. He then moved on to the chaussons aux pommes.
‘You must try one of these, they are one of our most popular pastries, and unlike many boulangeries, we have a whole half an apple inside!’
Next, he paused at a large cooling rack adorned with flat oval-shaped tarts heavily topped with syrupy figs. ‘Our seasonal tarte is not to be missed. The figs are so sweet and juicy at this time of year.’
Finally, he stopped at the chocolatines. ‘Well, you can’t come all this way and not try the pastry that inspired you to book the ticket to Paris!’
Each of the origami-wrapped pastries was placed in a large duck-egg-blue bag, emblazoned with the logo of Du Pain et des Idées and handed over the counter to me. Reverently, I accepted the parcel, cradling it as if it contained priceless, breakable artifacts. ‘They are my gift,’ Christophe announced when I reached for my purse. ‘Thank you for coming to my boulangerie and sharing your story.’
The beautiful redhead, who had smilingly observed the entire scene, asked if I would perhaps like a coffee to enjoy with my pastries. Speechless, I nodded. She indicated for me to take a seat at the picnic table outside. I floated out of the shop in a daze, unsure how to process everything that had just occurred.
Presently, the coffee arrived served in a perfectly mismatched sage-green cup and saucer. Rather than having a little bite of everything, I decided to savour one whole pastry with my coffee. It was morning-tea time, so I gave myself permission. But which one?! Deciding I was particularly enamoured with the citron nougat escargot, I delicately unfolded the origami wrapping, thankfully having the foresight to quickly pull out my digital camera to capture the moment, then I ate the pastry. Starting from the crunchy, caramelised tail of the escargot, slowly I worked my way around the spiral, marvelling at the evolution of the texture, the perfect balance of sweet and tart with the addition of lemon, and the chewy little surprise morsels of almond-studded nougat. It was perfection. Simple, humble, quiet perfection.
Eating that escargot had been a mindful experience, almost meditative. All I thought about was how happy it was making me.
I had a flash of clarity, something that I previously hadn’t been able to articulate. For the brief period I’d paused to enjoy and appreciate this pastry offering, I hadn’t thought about my troubles. I wasn’t worrying about thigh spread, or missing the MasterChef Mystery Box challenge on a Sunday night, or how to fill the long, empty hours of each day. I didn’t lament that I was twenty-eight and back living with my parents, that my friends and family probably thought of me as a failure. I wasn’t fretting about my lack of purpose, or questioning the point of life in general. Eating that escargot had been a mindful experience, almost meditative. All I thought about was how happy it was making me. The act of eating the pastry quietened my busy, troubled thoughts. It didn’t fix my problems or make them magically disappear, but it was bliss that they weren’t bouncing around my head, making me feel like a crazy person – even if only for a few short minutes.
Some people rock-climb or jump out of planes. Me? I’m cool with a pastry, thanks.
Not yet ready for this feeling to pass, I wanted to give myself the time and space to process what had just transpired. With the remaining precious cargo in hand, I walked the short distance to Montmartre, climbing the most famous hill in Paris to the Basilique du Sacré Cœur. I sat on the steps and looked out over the city; the day was overcast and hazy, fittingly painting it a smudged, impressionist canvas. So, after all those months of longing, wondering would it live up to the expectations I’d vividly constructed in my mind, how did I feel now?
I was officially in love.
But what about that chocolatine? Why, in that climactic moment, did I choose to eat the escargot rather than the chocolatine I’d been lusting after for months? That would have tied a nice little bow around the whole story, wouldn’t it? But that’s the thing about real life, real love. It rarely plays out like it does in the movies. I simply didn’t eat it. And I don’t have a good reason. Sometimes, you fall in love with a photo of someone, and then you meet their better-looking brother…
Kate Reid in the pastry kitchen, and her new book. Credit: Simon & Schuster
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