The morning in Paris began silvery gray.
On a cloudy morning Paris shimmers with a brilliance.
A brilliance polished by centuries of admiration.
We were in the 6th Arrondissement.
The birthplace of the existential movement.
Dazzling with the hippest art galleries and bookshops.
The sun came out as we strolled the cobbled streets popping into that most decadently delicious Valette for Foie Gras.
Oh the joy of nibbling your way through the Raspail Organic Market.
Devouring piping hot potato-onion and carrot-wheat galettes .
Then I met my dream.
In a shop perfumed with delicious cooking aromas.
An immaculate white clad chef beckons me. I cross the creaking worn wood floor and caressed La Cornue, the epitome of stoves. Not for me a Viking, an Imperial or a Wolf, or even an Aga. The stove of my dreams was La Cornue.
An alter to culinary extraordinaire.
My bouillabaisse would be better.
The croissants crispier, light than air.
The chocolate cake richer and darker.
It called to me. It would be the heart of my dream kitchen. It would be the soul of wonderful food memories. I left clutching brochures to cherish. Perhaps one day I would have my La Cornue engraved with my name . (Yes, when you order a La Cornue stove they build it just for you, and then engrave it. )
LA CORNUE , 18 rue Nabillon, the dream I met in Paris.