Chez Pierre et Geneviève Pâtisserie
Driving past Chez Pierre et Geneviève Pâtisserie,
the sign alone triggers a craving for croissants—
flaky, caramel‑colored shell, its center
deepened to amber. I imagine pulling
it apart, feeling the gentle resistance of feuilletage—
fifty‑five layers, twenty‑seven seams of Normandy butter.
Crafted with the French fold, dough doubled
again and again into gossamer‑thin sheets,
cut to perfect triangles, rolled into crescents.
I marvel at its hollow core, honeycombs of pastry
rising from the center—bloom of noisette,
nutty butter, whisper of yeast—its lacquered surface
glistening like amber in a jeweler’s case.
I anticipate the first bite—crisp shards
shattering, flying everywhere—my mouth
opening like dusk,
waiting for the moon to drop
into night.





