Voici la tartelette au citron meringuée de Manon bakery à Paris. It has a delicious buttery crust, and a delicate lemon curd (with an oh so faint taste of omelette), topped with a foamy meringue that will easily slide off the tart if you're not careful, so, faites attention, mes amis!
It was my first night in Paris. After a magical day of simply breathing the air and strolling the winding streets of this charming city steeped in all sorts of architectural magnificence, I settled into bed with a cold glass of milk, a madeleine, and a book on cabbage.
That night I had a dream that I was on le Métro. In front of me was a woman sleeping, stretched across the laps of her friends. She was fair skinned, black and had a young, fresh face. Slowly, she awoke from her nap and began to sing. Her voice sounded strange at first, meandering and crooked like a vine. Encouraged by the silence of the passengers on the train who like me were rapt w attention, she continued to sing, filling the train with a resounding poetry that was both beautiful and wise. It was the voice of Billie Holiday. We all leaned in like ragged paupers starved for art, begging her in our hearts to sing more.
That night I had a dream that I was on le Métro. In front of me was a woman sleeping, stretched across the laps of her friends. She was fair skinned, black and had a young, fresh face. Slowly, she awoke from her nap and began to sing. Her voice sounded strange at first, meandering and crooked like a vine. Encouraged by the silence of the passengers on the train who like me were rapt w attention, she continued to sing, filling the train with a resounding poetry that was both beautiful and wise. It was the voice of Billie Holiday. We all leaned in like ragged paupers starved for art, begging her in our hearts to sing more.
