Blame It On the Pommes Souffle

How did a girl from Brooklyn fall in love with Paris?

My life as a Francophile began with pommes souffle. Actually, it began with my friend Mary, who introduced me to pommes souffle many years ago. I've been following my taste buds to Paris ever since.

I met Mary when I applied for a job as her editorial assistant at Parents' magazine in New York City. I was just out of college and just over the bridge from Brooklyn. Mary took me under her wing and I followed her lead, not only on the job, but after hours, too, as she introduced me to her city, and to the world beyond.

Even then, dining in Manhattan was intoxicating, especially for a new arrival. The pommes souffle at Mary's favorite French restaurant were an epiphany for me. Savoring those elegant fingers of puffed potatoes, hollow inside, cracklingly crisp outside, was the beginning of my love affair with all things French.

The first time I went to Paris, Mary gave me a list of things to do in the three days I would be there. There wasn't a museum or an architectural marvel on it. "Time for those on your next trip," she advised. Instead, she sent me to fabulous food markets to observe the soul of the French at work. She named her favorite sidewalk cafe, and put the city's public parks high on the list. "Make time for the Tuileries Gardens," she wrote. "Have a picnic by the pool and watch the French do their thing." The French thing, I learned, is the same as Mary's. It's the art of enjoying life.

More important, she told me to go to France expecting to like the French and they would like me, advice I continue to pass on to friends facing their first encounter with Parisians. In thirteen visits to the French capitol, Mary never met a Parisian she didn't like.

Cooking was another of her passions. She had learned from observing the French in their marketplaces that the secret of their success is the use of only the freshest ingredients. In recreating the food she loved, she did as Parisians do. She went daily to the markets of her East Side neighborhood, buying just what she needed for that day's meals. She applied the same rule to coffee. No bean was ground before its time which, for Mary, was immediately before it was brewed.

I rarely declined an invitation from Mary, but the one I prized most was to her annual Christmas cocktail party. Friends from far and near fought holiday traffic and winter weather to get there. Mary would be at her door to greet us, strands of pearls cascading down her caftan, one hand outstretched in welcome the other holding a very dry martini.

In a world of relentless change, Mary's Christmas party was a constant. The guest list was always the same, for some of us it was the one time during the year that we met. We nibbled on bite-size squares of her famous quiche and exchanged gifts to the intimate crooning of Yves Montand, whom Mary had "bumped into" in a Paris bookstore many years before, and had retold the thrill of that encounter every Christmas since. Some of us had come a long way for those bites of quiche. We all felt special to be there.

In the beginning, I had a hard time accepting a world without Mary in it. Until I realized that she is still in my life. When I see pommes souffle on a restaurant's menu, the "Aha!" I exclaim is for Mary. On my last trip to Paris, when two sparrows swooped down on my table at her favorite cafe and flew off with pretzels in their beaks, my first thought was, Mary would love this! When I arrive at Grand Central Station, I look for her at the information booth, in raincoat and Reeboks, ready to lead me to a gem of a bistro.

From potato puffs to Paris, I continue to love everything French. As I continue to love Mary for unveiling the delights of a fabled city, many years ago, to a young girl who's been infatuated with it ever since.