“He opened the small brown bag and held it toward her, and she could smell the butter. Notably, though, there was no grease soaking the bottom of the bag, like when Mom brought home donuts. She peered in. "I think it's a croissant. And a chocolate croissant. And some kind of roll. And some other thing I didn't know what it was." "Chausson aux pommes," Rosie said, pulling it from the bag. She was pretty sure anyway- it had the distinctive half-moon shape, and the slashes on top let her see a peek of what looked like apple filling. "What's that?" Rosie stilled as Henry shifted closer to her. He was just looking at the pastry, and she knew that, but still. He was close, and he smelled warm, and sleepy. And male. "It's kind of like an apple croissant," she said, ignoring the rapid rise of her heartbeat. "Or an apple strudel. An apple turnover, I guess." "Try it." "You should have the first bite. You got it." "I insist," Henry said, and he wouldn't take it from her. So she bit in, and the pastry flaked instantly, then yielded into sweet, soft cinnamon apples. It was so good that she had to imagine this would be the best thing she'd try today. But then Henry was grinning, chocolate smeared on his face, and he passed her the pain au chocolat, and she thought that had to be the best thing. But then the classic croissant was so perfect, each layer of lamination distinct, and then the brioche was dangerously rich, yet so light at the same time, and the éclair's filling was perfectly smooth, and the baguette made Rosie rethink what, exactly, the stuff she'd been eating for the last sixteen years was, because it couldn't possibly be bread, not like this...” BreadFrenchPastriesFruitsButterBriocheCroissant Book:Love à la Mode Source: Love à la Mode
“My mom hates to cook," Rosie said. "But every time she's had to go to a potluck, she brings one thing. A trifle she makes, with brownies and pudding and candy and whipped cream." Rosie had plated her dessert into two glasses- she was pretty sure they were champagne coupes- and the two chefs poised their spoons at the rim of the glasses. "This is my version of my mom's trifle. Made with moelleux au chocolat, chocolate mousse, vanilla whipped cream, and chocolate feuilletine between each layer." Rosie loved moelleux au chocolat. The internet seemed to translate it as molten chocolate cake, but every moelleux au chocolat Rosie had had in Paris wasn't like a molten chocolate cake at all, but like the richest, fudgiest brownie on the planet. Which made it the perfect base for her trifle. And then the feuilletine, Rosie thought, would give the same crunch as a Kit Kat.” DessertFrenchChocolatesRosieTrifle Book:Love à la Mode Source: Love à la Mode
“By the time Rosie struggled to sit up, Henry sat in front of her with a pink pastry box. He lifted the lid, and Rosie peered inside to see the tiny apple rose tart, the "petals" impossibly thin, caramelized and shining with a dusting of sugar. "It's a rose- get it?" Henry said, and Rosie felt her breath catch in her throat. "It's beautiful." Carefully, Rosie lifted the tart out of the box. "Look at how thin the petals are- they must have used a mandoline. And the bake on the bottom is so even. It's hard to be so accurate with something so small." "Are you going to analyze it or eat it?" he joked. It looked delicious, but she almost didn't want to eat it. Henry had gotten her a rose, something far more beautiful than any flower could ever be. She wished she could keep it in her room forever, but that was part of the magic of food. It didn't last. It couldn't. Each bite was only a moment that transformed into a memory.” RoseMemorableFrenchApplePastryTart Book:Love à la Mode Source: Love à la Mode
“Cannelés," Rosie said. Little cakes with a dark, caramelized exterior. They had the shininess of a perfectly glazed donut, and even though Rosie had never had one- you had to have a special pan to make them, a cannelé mold- she knew the inside was supposed to be like custard. "Exactement!" Chef Petit said proudly. "You have had before?" "No," Rosie said, at exactly the same time Bodie said, "Yeah, of course. With Dominique Ansel." Good gravy. Of course Bodie was running around eating cannelés with the man who invented the Cronut. His real life was her Instagram feed. "Please, try." He shook the basket at them. Rosie grabbed one eagerly- it was warm, but not hot. "Cannelés are from Bordeaux, not Paris, but I thought, why not try?" Rosie bit into hers and felt the slight crispness from the caramelized sugar on the exterior give way to a soft interior that was, yes, almost exactly like custard. She could taste vanilla- real vanilla, she had no doubt she'd seen flecks of vanilla beans- and the richness of eggs and milk, and oh, it was just so much better than she'd expected it to be. The contrast between inside and outside was unreal, like a magic trick- a pastry with a secret.” FrenchPastriesVanillaCaramel Book:Love à la Mode Source: Love à la Mode
“We're making profiteroles." Profiteroles. Little cream puffs filled with vanilla ice cream and drowned in thick chocolate sauce. "Ha! I knew it!" he said triumphantly. "You already look ten times better. There is nothing as satisfying as making choux pastry." It was exactly what she was thinking. Choux pastry was literally one of her favorite things to make in the whole world. But she didn't tell him that. Instead, she grabbed an apron from a hook on the wall and tied it on. Together, they melted the butter with water in a saucepan, then added the flour, stirring with a wooden spoon until it pulled away from the sides and formed a ball- that was Rosie's favorite part, the way it came together like that. There was something so satisfying about it. Then they scooped the choux into bags and piped them into little circles on a baking sheet, competing to see who could do it better- Bodie was faster, but Rosie was neater.” BakingDessertFrenchCream PuffsVanilla Ice Cream Book:Love à la Mode Source: Love à la Mode