If I could invent a superpower for myself, it would probably be the ability to travel anywhere, anytime, through taste—a gift I owe to literature, which introduced me to Proust’s madeleine and the concept of involuntary memory. At one point, this idea led me to consider the flip side: if a simple madeleine can unlock a flood of memories on its own, without intention, why couldn’t we, through certain flavors, deliberately transport ourselves in time and space? Longed-for flavors, tastes we crave to recreate in an attempt to relive moments from our past. Flavors that can take us back there.
And “there,” for me, means Paris. I was supposed to be there this month.
Without planning it, Paris in May had become a tradition over the past few years—Paris au mois de mai, as Aznavour would sing—and as soon as the first timid signs of spring appeared, I was already imagining that this year would be no different. The anticipated joy of endless walks, tens of thousands of steps, would have me falling asleep, dreaming of wandering the city, savoring its poetry as I always do, never tiring of its charm.
Had it not been for this interruption, I would have packed my bags at the last minute, as usual, just hours before departure, on a sleepless night fueled by excitement. Perhaps I would have taken the 6:10 a.m. flight, the one that brings you to the airport at 4 a.m.—a flight well-known to all Paris enthusiasts. I’d catch the sunrise at the airport, snap a photo of it, and sip a cappuccino while waiting for the boarding announcement. My face would light up with a smile at the sight of the welcome sign at Charles de Gaulle, the one that says “Paris vous aime” (Paris loves you). I always like to think it’s meant just for me, and I always respond in my head with, “Moi aussi!” I would have embraced my dear friends, dropped off my luggage, and immediately dashed into the streets, feeling once again at home.
I would have strolled down toward the Seine, past the bouquinistes, until I reached Notre-Dame, where a familiar dilemma would have arisen: Should I explore Paris from the left bank or the right bank? My heart would eventually have pulled me toward the Rive Gauche. I would have veered toward Rue de Seine, and in no time, I would be walking along the boulevard that feels as if I’ve walked it in ten previous lives. “Voici l’éternité à Saint-Germain-des-Prés” would echo in my mind, a line from an old French song, sung in the deep voice of Juliette Gréco. By lunchtime, new decisions would need to be made: should I eat at the terrace of Les Éditeurs, or just across the street at Yves Camdeborde? Should I have my post-lunch coffee at Café de Flore or Deux Magots? Should I continue with a stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries or Jardin du Luxembourg? Inevitably, I’d end up gently wandering along Rue Bonaparte until I reached Pierre Hermé’s pâtisserie, where I’d savor his macarons, in true French spirit, right next to the steps of Saint-Sulpice church, with its fountain shimmering in the sunlight.
But France is built on solid principles—liberté, égalité, fraternité—and, in the spirit of fairness :) I wouldn’t have missed a trip through Le Marais, strolling up Rue Vieille du Temple, to catch a glimpse of the apartment where I once stayed, and passing by Rue Pavée for the famous Éclairs de Génie by Christophe Adam, which I would have enjoyed sitting on the grass at Place des Vosges. I wouldn’t have passed up another visit to Alain Ducasse’s Chocolate Factory on Rue de la Roquette—a little slice of heaven—and I definitely would have hurried to see Cedric Grolet’s new pâtisserie near the Opéra, which opened late last year (though perhaps I’d have visited both this one and the one near Le Meurice, for a proper comparison). By sunset—always by sunset, though I’m not sure why it always seems to happen that way—I would have crossed over to Île Saint-Louis, and the warmth of the day would have compelled me to stop for a Berthillon ice cream, the best in Paris, enjoyed while listening to musicians on the St. Louis Bridge play something by Sidney Bechet. I would have thought to myself, There’s always tomorrow, and reminded myself that my dear friends were expecting me for dinner. Slowly, I would have headed toward home, but my heart wouldn’t have let me, and I’d find, almost without realizing it, that my feet were leading me in the exact opposite direction, down the banks of the Seine toward my favorite bridge, Pont Neuf. Who knows where night might have found me? :)
All of this, if only. For now, though, I’m left with the taste of nostalgia and flavors I try to recreate, every now and then, in search of lost time. So when Elle&Vire invited me to tell a story with a French flavor, I knew I wanted it to be one with the taste of caramel au beurre salé. The taste of the last dessert I shared with my Parisian friends, over coffee somewhere on Rue des Beaux-Arts, before the pandemic came into our lives. And where I hope we can return, someday soon.
Although it originated in Brittany, salted butter caramel has now spread throughout France and even beyond. I’ve yet to meet a French person who doesn’t experience a shiver of pleasure and a subtle smile at just the mention of caramel au beurre salé. If you find a dessert menu and, somewhere on it, there’s something featuring caramel au beurre salé, the choice is clear. It can be spread on crêpes (the famous Breton crêpes filled with salted butter caramel) or drizzled over pain perdu, slathered on bread like Nutella, or incorporated into a chocolate tart or a moelleux au chocolat coeur caramel au beurre salé—the possibilities are endless. But the easiest way to enjoy it is the simplest: with a spoon straight from the jar, on a rainy day when you need a little extra indulgence and are longing for familiar places and cherished people.
INGREDIENTS:
- 200g sugar
- 5 tablespoons of water
- 200 ml heavy cream (32-35% fat)
- 125g demi-sel butter
- Optional: a few crystals of fleur de sel
PREPARATION:
There are three main steps:
1. In a saucepan, melt the sugar with the water over low heat, allowing it to gradually turn a golden-brown color.
2. Once the sugar reaches the desired caramel hue, remove the pan from the heat and immediately add the cream all at once, stirring continuously to combine.
3. Return the pan to the heat and add the butter, whisking constantly until fully incorporated. Although the demi-sel butter already contains salt, you can optionally add a few crystals of *fleurs de sel* before transferring the caramel to a jar. The occasional pop of salt against the rich sweetness of the caramel creates a wonderfully balanced and truly special taste. The caramel can be served warm or cold, and it keeps well in the refrigerator—assuming there’s any left to save!
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