Read Online Paris, My Sweet by Amy Thomas - Free Book Online

, which was swarmed by mobs of tourists aiming their digital cameras at her ambiguous smile.
    But for me, there was nothing more stunning than the Winged Victory of Samothrace. As we approached the goddess Nike, rising step by step up the Daru staircase, her beauty loomed over us. The outstretched wings, the flowing garments, the forward movement—it was both graceful and powerful; there was so much emotion chiseled in that stone-cold marble. I kept turning around and around her, looking at her from the left, and then the right, and then from straight on. My heart was beating in overdrive, and my arms were covered in goose bumps. I’m not normally so moved by art, but that sculpture reduced me to mush. Feeling overwhelmed to the brink of exhaustion, Mom, Bob, and I decided it was time to do what we did best: break for sweets.

    Being that we were in the first arrondissement, given that it was a crappy day, knowing Mom and Bob as I know them, there was only one place for us to go: Angelina. This century-old tea salon, or salon de thé, on rue Rivoli is a classic tourist trap. But it’s not without its charms. The Belle-Époque architect Édouard-Jean Niermans’s interior still evokes elegance of decades past, when the likes of Coco Chanel and Audrey Hepburn—not schleps like us, in our sneakers and rain gear—stopped in for tea. It was founded in 1903 by the Austrian confectioner Antoine Rumpelmayer and named after his daughter-in-law. The whole atmosphere feels opulent, with gilded crown moldings, petite pedestal tables topped in marble, and pastoral landscapes reflected in arched mirrors hanging around the room, all bathed in a warm yellow glow. And then, of course, there is the world-famous chocolat chaud .
    Can liquid be considered a proper dessert? Oui , in the rare instance that it’s something as exquisite as Angelina’s signature chocolat “l’Africain .” So obscenely thick and outrageously rich, it’s even better than when, as a kid, I’d sip Swiss Miss hot cocoa and savor those mini-marshmallows after sledding on an icy winter day.
    Angelina’s hot chocolate is so smooth and velvety, each sip sensually coats your tongue and teeth. It’s both refined and indulgent; it’s a simple recipe but a sophisticated experience. It arrives on a silver tray and is served perfectly warm—not scalding hot—with a side of whipped cream sculpted into a decorative puff. It’s the perfect way to warm up on a rainy spring day. A decadent way to get your day’s chocolate quota. It’s hot chocolate worth the price of airfare to Paris.
    â€œThis reminds me of the cocoa from Jacques,” my mom said, daintily blowing into her fine white cup.
    Bob’s face, flushed with the rich drink, broke into a grin. “Ohhhh, butt-her!” he cried in a pitch that pained my ears and made a nearby table of Harajuku girls look over at us in alarm. As soon as I made eye contact with them, they turned away and started giggling among themselves. Half the patrons in the airy tearoom were Japanese. The rest were a mix of Americans and Germans, with just a few French grandes dames .
    â€œYou can never have too much butt-heeeer!” He was doing his impression of Julia Child cooking with Jacques Pepin. The two masters had famously fun banter on their PBS series, Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home , and it never failed to make Mom and Bob roll with laughter when they recalled, and imitated, the pair’s strange and charming dynamics. They loved their cooking shows.
    â€œYeah, but I’m talking about the other Jacques,” my mom said, rolling her eyes, despite her amusement.
    â€œI knnnoooooow,” Bob said, not giving up. A waitress, who still looked bedraggled in her formal black dress and white apron, briskly walked by and shot us a look of disapproval. But even I was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “But I like talking