I'm back in Paris, my hometown (gastronomically speaking), and it seems like my first stop, since it is morning, should be Millet, a famous pastry shop in the 7th arrondissement. Before I put anything in my mouth, and even before I cross the threshold of the shop, I'm thinking about the 3 ovens, stacked vertically, each with a different temperature, that are used to bake their ethereal croissants. Did I mention that croissant dough rises 2 ways: from the yeast in the dough and the butter that is incorporated, puff pastry style (the dough, containing a slab of butter, is rolled out and folded repeatedly). After being rolled into croissants and allowed to rise one final time, they are put into oven #1, the hot oven, which forever sets the croissant's shape and size and gives it color. Then they go into oven #2, a cooler oven, to finish their journey which will end in my mouth.

Let me walk you through the first bite, as a physicist would take you through the first few milliseconds of the birth of the universe. Even before you open your mouth, you just might notice an overwhelming aroma that is present only when you are baking something that both rises and puffs up. So-as the croissant goes into your mouth-or actually into my mouth-my teeth break through the 1st layer in less than a millisecond, releasing tiny molecules of butter and yeast. Then-and this is the amazing part!-before the croissant has been in my mouth for a second, my teeth have passed through hundreds of layers, identical to the first. Only the birth of the universe is more exciting than eating a croissant.

Back in the present, I have finally crossed the threshold of Millet, where I was stuck for twenty something years. I walk down the narrow, slippery, hazardous stairs that connects the elegant "salon" with the equally inelegant kitchen. I ask Denis, the brain of Millet, if the gas still leaks in this underground kitchen; and it does, Well, see you upstairs, in that case.

Actually, I eventually head downstairs again because I want to share in the excitement of seeing croissants bake. I worked at Millet during my days off from Archestrate, a Michelin 3-star restaurant in Paris. Back in those days, I had a hard schedule because I basically worked day and night with a few hours off between lunch and dinner. I wanted to learn as much as I could in the shortest amount of time. Also, I was in charge of making puff pastry (by hand), certain hors d'oeuvres, some appetizers, soufflés and desserts (like the "baked to order" paper-thin caramelized apple tart on puff pastry)-all this after only 1 month of work. (I have to thank Christian Clement, the chef de cuisine, for changing me from a dilettante to a real cook.)

You know, I'm still walking down those stairs at Millet, and I'm determined to finish my trip. For god's sake, there are only about 15 stairs! All right-I'm there, and so is Denis, working in typical non-stop fashion. One quick handshake, and he is back at work. I'm watching not only croissants but also brioches, apple tartes, and éclair shells go into and out of the ovens.

I ask him what he thinks about some of the "new" pastries being made in Paris these days. We both agree that saffron does not belong in pastry. He re-iterates what I've heard him say a thousand times: his job is to take the freshest and best ingredients, mix them together, and bake them so that the finished product gets the maximum amount of flavor from each ingredient, and make damn sure (expletive is mine) that the aforementioned delicacy is tastier than the sum of the ingredients. Actually, isn't that what all of us food alchemists try to do? Isn't that what keeps us on the sane side of the sane/insane border? This is our passion, our art, and all we ask is that you clear your mind and put it in your mouth.

My love affair with foie gras started in the U.S. when I made tournedos Rossini using canned foie gras and canned truffles. After the first bite, the love affair was over. Then I went to France. My 1st job was at Archestrate, where I asked the chef if I could work for a few days. (I had my first extraordinary French meal there and worked for a year. When I tasted the fresh version of canned foie gras, I was hooked for life.)

Foie gras is one of the wonders of the world, probably number 1. It is made from both goose and duck livers, but us fat-molecule seekers prefer the goose. One day in Paris, in the privacy of my apartment, I had a slab of fresh goose foie gras and -gasp!-an 1893 Chateau d'Yquem Sauternes. The combination was so extraordinary and so overwhelming that it was comparable to playing, on a Steinway concert grand, a 16 note chord with each hand and producing the mythical "welcome to heaven" tune you supposedly hear when you cross over from the here and now to the hereafter.

I tasted 10 slabs of the stuff this time, and one was so extraordinary that I took this photo of it. Like uni (raw sea urchin), Sauternes, and other food items, foie gras can be measured by its "longness" on the palate. But beware: this is only one of many components, and the sum of its components comes nowhere near, and I mean absolutely nowhere near, the total.

Foie gras should be eaten cold (marinated, cooked in a very slow oven, and allowed to cool overnight) rather than hot (sautéed raw foie gras) and very fresh. A prayer should be offered before and after consuming it, just in case.

Believe it or not, I'm on my way to Berthillon, world capital of ice cream and sorbet, on the Ile St. Louis, after a lunch of duck foie gras and veal sweetbreads. I'm walking so that I can burn off just enough calories to accommodate 3 scoops of sorbet. This is no ordinary sorbet. One day I snuck into their inner sanctum of ice cream production and asked the owner if I could spend a day or two learning his secrets. (This is how I got into Archestrate, Troisgros, Girardet, and all the other kitchens I worked in throughout the world.) Before I was thrown out 10 seconds later, I had my answer. Question #1 (the only one I could ask as I was flying out the door): "Do you use a 'pese sirop' to measure the amount of syrup in your sorbet?" "Monsieur," he said, "this (indicating a finger going into his mouth) is my 'pese sirop'". And, just before I disappeared from his view and he from mine, I noticed (with eyes and nose, but especially my nose) a large bowl full of thawing litchis that had been expertly chosen for their perfect ripeness.

So, before I tell you what I tasted-let's review how to make the perfect sorbet. Puree very ripe fruit. (At the grocery store or fruit market, make friends with the fruit flies. They will usually be able to guide you to the ripe stuff. Also, fruit must smell ripe or it is not ripe.) Add sugar syrup to taste, then add a little extra because the cold temperature will decrease the sweetness when it turns into sorbet. Now, put it all into an ice cream maker. When it's done, put it into the freezer for a few hours before you dig in. Ice cream is a little harder to make but not much.

In four days, I tasted vanilla (so intense that it must have cost $25.00 per scoop to make), chocolate, caramel, and gianduja ice creams and pear, peach, wild strawberry, melon, rhubarb, wild blackberry, passion fruit, and mango sorbets. This list does not include the croissants, clafouti, lychee gelee and raspberry puree, passion fruit and raspberry tarte, "macaroons" (two pieces of lighter than air meringue-like pastries flavored with everything imaginable, with intense fruit jam or nut paste in between-the ultimate test of a patissier's skills), meringue surrounding pistachio paste and cranberry puree, assorted pastries with crème chibouste (as good as it sounds), petits fours with saffron (ugh!), filet of beef with béarnaise sauce, grilled lamb chops, duck breast (cooked rare), salade nicoise, homemade French fried potatoes (a revelation! Oh joy!), the aforementioned sweetbreads with morels, and foie gras. I missed the chocolates, Atelier (a new tasting restaurant which stars Joel Robuchon), Lucas Carton (owned by Alain Senderens, who taught me everything I know about French cuisine), wild game (out of season), truffles (also out of season), Chateau Lafite Rothchild, brains, scallops with their own roe, beurre blanc, grilled Dover sole, etc., etc., etc.


But I'll do all of those things next time.

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