eight
An enticing smell jars me from my melancholy, and I stop in front of a restaurant with a chalkboard sign out front, one that touts wonderful crepes. The specials of the day are written in cursive.
#1 Bavarian Cream and Vanilla Custard, Folded Inside a Warm Crepe with Dark Chocolate and Whipped Cream
#2 Scallion-Infused Crepe with Ham, Brie Cheese, Spinach, and Spicy Honey Dijon Mustard
I look up and see the sign. Wake Crepes.
Crepes?Why is there a crêperie in this little town?
This spot was not here years ago—I know that—but obviously, I have to go in because crepes areeverything.
While it’s a dimly-lit room with dark wood floors and equally dark booths and tables, the unique art on the walls and the wonderfully fun and quirky light fixtures add great warmth and ambiance.
I’m suddenly ravenous. I barely ate yesterday while traveling, and vodka isn’t exactly a meal. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.
There’s a menu on the table, and before I can get through a portion of it, a heavyset woman wearing a stylish white pantsuit and shiny black heels approaches me.
She plucks a pen from behind her ear and whips out a notepad. “You are tourist?” she asks in a heavy French accent while avoiding eye contact.
“Tourist? Oh, er, no. I used to live here. A long time ago.”
She glances up. “So, you are touristnow?”
“No, no. I’m…my family still owns a house here. I haven’t been back in a long time. I’m Callie. My dad grew up here. I mean, I grew up here, too, and then he died—”
Thankfully, she’s nonplussed by my blathering. “Okay, not tourist. You have a lunch then, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I think spinach, mushroom, and Gruyere crepe for you, okay?” She whips the menu from my hand. “And white wine.”
“No, thank you. I’m driving,” I say.
“If you have a crepe, you have a wine too,” she says sternly. “Is okay.”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
Suddenly, she slams the menu against the table. “You no have the wine? I quit. I quit!”
After I catch my breath, I nod. “Sure. Wine sounds super.”
She begins to walk away and then stops. “I am called Nicole. Is my place here. Is like my restaurant in Dijon. You know, the mustard? I bring France here. You will like food.”
She might be assertive, but she’s right. Soon, I am devouring the most delicious meal that I’ve ever eaten, and the wine she chose pairs perfectly with the crepe she insisted upon. If I can ever master my sad scrambled-egg goal, maybe she’d be willing to teach me about the world of cooking crepes.
My phone starts alerting me to countless texts from my mother, but I’m saved from replying when Nicole swaps out my savory crepe for a sweet one.
“Is special for today. Bavarian cream. You will like,oui.” It’s not a question.
She’s right again. The filling is silken and rich with the right balance of sweet cream, intensely rich vanilla custard, and bitter chocolate, the mild whipped topping creating perfection.
Later, I step up to the bar to pay my bill, but Nicole sternly waves away my credit card and barely makes eye contact.
“Is fine. Is nothing. I know your father and mother.”
She struts away before I can comment on that or rave about the food, but as I’m walking out the door, she calls behind her, “You do a shopping now, okay? You see the stores. Your friends, they miss you. I see you soon for more crepes. And plus,du vin.”
