Free Paris, My Sweet by Amy Thomas Page A

across town to meet the client and even more frequent smoke breaks, was cool. But he rarely had time to pause and ask ça va? , much less how this foreign city and life were treating me. There were a couple of old-timers who reeked of nicotine and coffee and muttered between themselves in the corner, and a group of scruffy hipster dudes who always looked like they’d spent the night on the couch. Everyone else pretty much blended into one big, buttoned up “colleague” group. They were all nice enough. But, so far, I wasn’t clicking with any of them.
    Until Isabelle. Another writer on the Louis Vuitton account, she and I started a friendship on a very auspicious note.

    I was sitting at my desk, the brilliant afternoon sunlight warming my back, trying to come up with a smart and clever title for the filmmaking competition we were launching for Louis Vuitton—anything but the after-school-special-ish “Destination: Inspiration” the client had suggested—when I saw a tall, thin girl with spiky blonde hair approaching. Isabelle had a free-spirited wardrobe—paisley bandanas, platform sandals, bracelets that clanked and echoed across the room—that matched her quirky beauty and brilliant smile. “Spunk” was the word that came to mind whenever we were in meetings together. She was Canadian, not French, which meant she wasn’t too cool to express enthusiasm with a broad smile or wink of conspiracy. We had been making tentative steps toward friendship beyond our small Louis Vuitton team, and I knew I liked her for a reason beyond her laidback vibe.
    â€œBonjour, Amy,” she spoke slowly, tentatively, hovering in the pool of sunlight. She placed a sheet of paper on my desk and pointed to the list of names with scribbled food items next to them. Françoise, croissants; Veronique, jus de fruits; Gurvan, baguette . She was organizing a petit dej —a potluck breakfast—for the creative department, she explained, pointing to the very official sign-up sheet. “Peut-être tu peux apporter du brioche, ou Nutella ou quelque-chose?” she asked, wondering what I could contribute. I wasn’t exactly sure what this breakfast business was about; it seemed much more casual than I was accustomed to at the office. But my spirits perked right up at the thought of sweet, doughy breads and thick hazelnut spreads.
    â€œAbsolutement!” I said, already calculating that the deliciousness would begin in about, oh, eighteen or nineteen hours. “Bonne idée.” I smiled at her before spelling out my name, pausing, and writing pain au chocolat next to it. “J’apporte combien, tu pense?” I asked in my embarrassingly primitive French. “Douze? Quinze?” Should I bring twelve or fifteen?
    Her green eyes widened. “Non, non. Tout le monde apporte quelque-chose, donc, tu pourrais apporter juste cinq ou six. Il y aura beaucoup!” Duh. How un-French. My first instinct was to load up the table with an overabundance of food but she was telling me just five or six would do. Of course the Frenchies would be more restrained. But still, the American side of my brain rationalized, bringing only a half dozen pastries to my first office gathering? Didn’t that seem sort of chintzy? I mentally noted to bring ten.
    My demeanor must have changed as I was considering the vast quantities of pain au chocolat that were in my future.
    â€œTu aimes des viennoiserie?” Isabelle asked, with a knowing smile, if I liked pastry. This was my first dose of office small talk, I realized.
    â€œConnais-tu des bons boulangeries à Paris?” And, if I understood her correctly, I loved the topic of our conversation: pastries and bakeries.
    Of course I had already mentally been going through my pâtisserie spreadsheet, thinking this breakfast would be the perfect occasion to try one of the grandes classiques like Lenôtre or Fauchon. What a way to make