A tall and talented French chef called Sylvain demonstrated crêpes suzette, and all went up in flames. A young girl was hooked, in awe of the beauty. A crêpe would be the vessel for a fine meal. Local farms would provide the fillings, and local people would enjoy the fare. The French chef schooled the young girl, teaching the braise, the sauté and the sieve. Sauces were born and bottled. Meat was butchered and lamb was frenched. After the hot soup focus group, they moved to the sweet side of things. “Whew,” said the girl, after learning the pâte à choux, “Can we move to tiramisu?” Then there was the porridge cake, and the savory cupcake. “Les Americaines, ils veulent toujours le gâteau,” said Sylvain. They will always want cake.

Many months later, when Paris (the city, not the person) called, tears were shed, and the French chef said, “Ne panique pas, je serai retourner!” He carefully folded his neckerchief, packed up his knives and zippered the case. But one knife lay on the table. He washed it, dried it, and handed it over to the girl. “Pour moi?” she cried (and cried, and cried, for days.)