aboutâ¦theâ¦butt-heeeer!â
While Bob continued amusing himself with his ridiculous Julia Child impersonations, Mom and I started reminiscing about âthe otherâ Jacques: Jacques Torres.
We had made the pilgrimage to Jacques Torresâs original boutique in the industrial Brooklyn neighborhood DUMBO years ago. Come to think of it, our adventures that week in Paris werenât much different than the ones we had shared in New York. Weâd basically build an itinerary around a couple sweet spots that were on our radarâeither destinations Mom had heard about on the Food Network or new bakeries I wanted to check out for my âSweet Freakâ column. Past explorations had brought us to Doughnut Plant on the Lower East Side for square yeast doughnuts glazed with peanut butter and filled with blackberry jam. Weâd gone to Crumbs for those five-hundred-calorie, candy-covered cupcakes. And on the Upper West Side, weâd visited Aliceâs Tea Cup for the miraculously moist banana-butterscotch scones. But Mom and Bob were as big of chocoholics as I was, and the journey to Jacques Torres was memorable for more reason than one.
DUMBO, Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, wasnât the typical neighborhood I took them to. Ordinarily, we stayed within the comfy confines of New Yorkâs well-lit and scrubbed areas: Central Park, Soho, Grand Central. In Soho, the cobblestone streets are filled with moneyed European tourists. In DUMBO, theyâre littered with discarded vodka bottles and dog poop. Uptown, the limestone townhouses glow, spick-andspan. Here, a beautiful yet abandoned brick warehouse was splattered with graffiti and vomit. The subway rattled overhead, trains going to and fro on the Manhattan Bridge, and there was nary a soul about. Mom and Bob played it cool, but I think we all breathed a little easier once we entered Jacquesâs chocolate den.
Jacques is French and, at the age of twenty-six, was actually the youngest chef to win the prestigious Meilleur Ouvrier de France award, the highest honor possible in French pastry. He then came over to the United States, where he worked as a pastry chef at the Ritz in Rancho Mirage, California, and Atlanta, Georgia. Then he really made a name for himself as executive pastry chef of the highly acclaimed New York restaurant Le Cirque, which has also helped launch the careers of Daniel Boulud, David Bouley, Bill Telepan, and many others. Somewhere along the way, Jacques picked up the very American nickname Mr. Chocolate, and he finally realized his dream of opening his own chocolate business in 2000âthe boutique where we found ourselves on that cold but sunny winter day.
After the barren landscape outside, it was like walking into a warm, welcoming wombâone that envelops you in the scent of chocolate and encourages you to go ahead, indulge! Life is short. Eat dessert first! Exposed brick walls and tin ceilings hinted at the spaceâs earlier life as a warehouse, but its present incarnation was bright and modern. Shelves were jam-packed with orange and brown packaged treats: chocolate-covered Cheerios, chocolate-covered cornflakes, chocolate-covered raisins and pretzels and espresso beans. Chocolate malt balls, chocolate almonds, and giant 2.2-pound âBig Daddyâ chocolate blocks. There was caramel corn, peanut brittle, mudslide cookie mixes, and tins of chocolate shavings so you could try replicating Jacquesâs über-rich hot chocolate at homeâanything the choco-obsessed could dream was crammed in the small space.
An L-shaped counter had all manner of fresh, handcrafted temptations: a spread of individual bonbons with cheeky names like Wicked Fun (chocolate ganache with ancho and chipotle chilies), Love Bug (key lime ganache enveloped in white chocolate), and Ménage à Trois (a mystery blend of three ingredients). Platters of double chocolate chip cookies and fudgy brownies. And there were
While Bob continued amusing himself with his ridiculous Julia Child impersonations, Mom and I started reminiscing about âthe otherâ Jacques: Jacques Torres.
We had made the pilgrimage to Jacques Torresâs original boutique in the industrial Brooklyn neighborhood DUMBO years ago. Come to think of it, our adventures that week in Paris werenât much different than the ones we had shared in New York. Weâd basically build an itinerary around a couple sweet spots that were on our radarâeither destinations Mom had heard about on the Food Network or new bakeries I wanted to check out for my âSweet Freakâ column. Past explorations had brought us to Doughnut Plant on the Lower East Side for square yeast doughnuts glazed with peanut butter and filled with blackberry jam. Weâd gone to Crumbs for those five-hundred-calorie, candy-covered cupcakes. And on the Upper West Side, weâd visited Aliceâs Tea Cup for the miraculously moist banana-butterscotch scones. But Mom and Bob were as big of chocoholics as I was, and the journey to Jacques Torres was memorable for more reason than one.
DUMBO, Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, wasnât the typical neighborhood I took them to. Ordinarily, we stayed within the comfy confines of New Yorkâs well-lit and scrubbed areas: Central Park, Soho, Grand Central. In Soho, the cobblestone streets are filled with moneyed European tourists. In DUMBO, theyâre littered with discarded vodka bottles and dog poop. Uptown, the limestone townhouses glow, spick-andspan. Here, a beautiful yet abandoned brick warehouse was splattered with graffiti and vomit. The subway rattled overhead, trains going to and fro on the Manhattan Bridge, and there was nary a soul about. Mom and Bob played it cool, but I think we all breathed a little easier once we entered Jacquesâs chocolate den.
Jacques is French and, at the age of twenty-six, was actually the youngest chef to win the prestigious Meilleur Ouvrier de France award, the highest honor possible in French pastry. He then came over to the United States, where he worked as a pastry chef at the Ritz in Rancho Mirage, California, and Atlanta, Georgia. Then he really made a name for himself as executive pastry chef of the highly acclaimed New York restaurant Le Cirque, which has also helped launch the careers of Daniel Boulud, David Bouley, Bill Telepan, and many others. Somewhere along the way, Jacques picked up the very American nickname Mr. Chocolate, and he finally realized his dream of opening his own chocolate business in 2000âthe boutique where we found ourselves on that cold but sunny winter day.
After the barren landscape outside, it was like walking into a warm, welcoming wombâone that envelops you in the scent of chocolate and encourages you to go ahead, indulge! Life is short. Eat dessert first! Exposed brick walls and tin ceilings hinted at the spaceâs earlier life as a warehouse, but its present incarnation was bright and modern. Shelves were jam-packed with orange and brown packaged treats: chocolate-covered Cheerios, chocolate-covered cornflakes, chocolate-covered raisins and pretzels and espresso beans. Chocolate malt balls, chocolate almonds, and giant 2.2-pound âBig Daddyâ chocolate blocks. There was caramel corn, peanut brittle, mudslide cookie mixes, and tins of chocolate shavings so you could try replicating Jacquesâs über-rich hot chocolate at homeâanything the choco-obsessed could dream was crammed in the small space.
An L-shaped counter had all manner of fresh, handcrafted temptations: a spread of individual bonbons with cheeky names like Wicked Fun (chocolate ganache with ancho and chipotle chilies), Love Bug (key lime ganache enveloped in white chocolate), and Ménage à Trois (a mystery blend of three ingredients). Platters of double chocolate chip cookies and fudgy brownies. And there were
Similar Books
