Months before the plans for the Paris trip were unveiled, Jenna and I would devote copious amounts of time fantasizing about our future travels to France. I’d translate, she’d accompany me, and together, we’d eat our way through all of Paris. Huddled around our pretty copy of Breakfast – Lunch – Tea, the cookbook from Paris’ Rose Bakery, we’d ogle the humble recipes, glowing ingredients, and no-frills main dining room, negotiating the frequency with which we’d visit the shop in Montmartre. “Once for breakfast and once for lunch per every week we’re in Paris,” we agreed; how could we not pay homage to this loveliest of luncheries when we were in Paris? There would of course be many other opportunities to eat croissants and steak frites. “One day,” we sighed, “one day when we have the means to buy plane tickets and hotel rooms, dinner AND desserts…” All the while, we quietly, wistfully stowed the idea in the very backs of our minds, knowing full well how impossible it was.
Flash-forward to around March. Mom informs me that we’ve done a house swap, Neil has cashed in his frequent flier miles, and we’re going to Paris. “Call Jenna and see if these dates work for her.” I call Jenna. “Want to go to Paris?” Squeals ensue. Months later, we are on a plane (still squealing, of course), marking up an itinerary of restaurant notes. Rose Bakery was, of course, at the top of that list. And so it was that we decided one night to set our alarms early and traipse down to Montmartre for a lovely breakfast at the hands of Rose Carrarini, who presides over this quaint stop.
The entrance is unobtrusive and unassuming; we nearly passed right by it when we were walking on the opposite side of the street. The no-frills first impression is a good match for the no-frills interior of concrete floors, simple tables, an exposed pantry, and a simple front counter bearing all the freshest goodies.
Despite our best efforts, we got there in later morning, so pickings were slim. I snagged this mega-tall chocolate chip blueberry muffin (it looked like it had been baked in a small drinking glass!). Despite the unusual proportions, it was cooked through perfectly, not tough, not gooey. Wheat flour and brown sugar gave it a warm, inherent, subtle sweetness that was an appropriately French and rather welcome surprise, having grown accustomed to the sugar-riddled muffins-cum-cupcakes that we have here. I wished they had warmed the muffin more than the cursory touch of heat that barely penetrated.
Passable, but a bit underwhelming.
So, of course, we did what anyone would’ve done in our situation: we decided to come back for lunch. We paid our checks, walked around Montmartre for an hour or so, and returned to Rose Bakery so that we could reach our Rose quota (it was the right thing to do). In the pocket of time that we were gone, the counter became pregnant with tons and tons of tarts and quiches, giant metal bowls of different salads, and other various snacks. We opted for a lovely little combo that gave us each our choice of quiche and two sides.
A personal quiche, rustic in its charm, of eggplant and sundried tomatoes greeted me. Rose is known for her proclivity for fresh, superior ingredients that she doctors minimally, so that they can instead stand on their own without gratuitous crutching. That was the gist of this quiche, and of this meal: unremarkable in concept but organically satisfying.
Please take note of the perfectly untainted parsley. It’s just. so. clean. This wins me over.
Please also take note of the crust, a parcel of ethereal buttery sub-crust quarks, shattering under the pressure of a fork, cradling a delicious, frothy eggy custard and tenderly cooked vegetables.
…Hasselback Caprese? Basil leaves were tucked surreptitiously in each tomato-mozzarella slot like flowers in the pages of a worn book. Tomatoes like this settle once and for all the age-old dispute about tomatoes’ questionable fruit nature (because some people can’t wrap their minds around the fact that this burger staple is anything but a veggie); sweet bursts of juice exploded in every bite. The mozzarella, on the other hand, was a bit too watery, a lot too bland. A good weight to the springy tomato and basil, but no flavorful component. So this was most assuredly not the salad’s best iteration, but who can be surprised that I really wanted tomatoes? Who knows when this love affair will lose steam? (The end is not in sight. I bought a carton of cherry tomatoes at the grocery when all I meant to get were raspberries, and I ate the tomatoes like popcorn when I got home.)
And finally…
I love cabbage.
What?
I’ll say it again: I love cabbage.
Many people don’t understand this. I don’t understand them. Okay, so cabbage in and of itself is not a savory delight, but its odd, slightly al dente crispness lends itself to endless doctoring. When cooked with lots of garlic and tossed with a generous pour of Crystal, it makes New Year’s a pleasure. And here at Rose Bakery, coated in olive oil and enhanced with sliced red pepper, it was at once substantial and light, sweet and piquant, and toothsome all the way through. I ate every last tendril of that playful red cabbage.
Rose Bakery isn’t impressive, at least in terms of magnitude, technique, intellect, or presentation. It’s very no-nonsense, with shallow earthenware bowls containing the quiches and salads as opposed to plates that would keep the components from bumping into one another. The ordering process is hard to understand – it’s unclear whether you order at the front or wait for a server, and especially with Paris’ universally lower standards on service, there’s a bit of a learning curve. (I wish I could give you a straight answer; I ordered breakfast at the counter but got my lunch order taken from a waitress.) But there’s something so fundamentally gratifying and nurturing about eating plates of humbly prepared food that just so happens to be healthy, eating a meal that takes you back down to earth rather than sweeping you off your feet.
And, of course, it was THE fabled Rose Bakery. And what tastes better than realizing a dream?
