Recently, a friend who had heard of my search for éclairs directed me to a small bakery called Boulangerie on North 45th in Seattle. As this particular friend is something of a skilled baker herself, I decided to take her advice and give it a go.
Oh, what a foolish wretch am I. Or perhaps it was she who was the foolish wretch, but I would never say something so cruel about a friend.
But then, I must say the bonds of our friendship have been sorely tested by the travails I endured at her behest, and so perhaps... No, no, I must not. I shall simply have to extract some form of penance, preferably in the form of properly-prepared pastries of some sort.
As you might have gathered by this point, my visit to Boulangerie was a bit of a disappointment. I must confess as well that I visited only once, and perhaps I simply visited on a bad day. But I quite sincerely doubt it.
I should also point out that Boulangerie is not the "Boulangerie Bakery" in downtown Seattle, an establishment whose redondantment redundant name has thus far caused me to shun its interior. (Perhaps I should say its name is pleonastically pléonastique , to appease L'Académie Française; but then, I try to avoid such pedantry.) That bakery, for all I know, might be an outstanding establishment.
And so, disclaimers and equivocations done, I return to my visit to Boulangerie.
The exterior of the shop is quite unassuming, and indeed, the entire shop seems to have been decorated using the proceeds obtained as the result of a thorough search beneath the owner's sofa cushions one weekend. Poor decor is not necessarily a bad sign, and indeed, can often be an indicator that a shop lives solely by the quality of its product, so I was not at all dismayed.
I entered the shop and was greeted by a kindly-seeming older Vietnamese man, doubtless the proprietor and chef. Vietnam, as a former French colony, has a solid tradition in all forms of French cuisine, so again, I was encouraged.
Looking more closely at the pastry case, however, I noted two things: First, every pastry was rather more brown looking than I might expect, and the prices were about half again what I would expect from a shop of this sort.
I immediately started to develop some misgivings, but trusting in my friend, I decided to ignore my better judgement and buy several of their suspiciously dark eclairs with anemic stripes of chocolate piped in thin strips on top... I bought five, at a price in the neighborhood of $20. I leave the math to you, but as I said, they were a bit overpriced.
Why did I buy more than one, you ask? I have asked myself the same question again and again since that day. I could give many reasons, but none would suffice to justify the pain I suffered as a result of that poor decision.
I took the eclairs away with me, because the shop's lack of ambience was not terribly conducive to my goal of enjoying a nice dessert. This decision doubtless saved me from assault charges or similar legal issues, for had I yet remained in that shop when I took the first bite of my eclair, I might have been unable to refrain from injuring that perfidious, purulent purveyor of pestilential pseudo pastries...
Oh, perhaps I might fairly have argued that my assault was justified, but the legal fees would have been ruinous. No, I am glad that I was not in the shop when first I tasted that so-called éclair.
On picking it up, I noticed that the puff pastry had a bit less give than I might expect. A good eclair is usually quite soft and moist. Nonetheless, I took a solid bite...
Crunch!
Crunch!?! What is this crunch? A crunchy éclair??? Never have I been subjected to such an atrocity, and mind you, I have encountered my fair share of culinary mayhem.
I looked inside the éclair, trying desperately to understand how anyone could admire this foul concoction. The "pastry cream" occupied only the bottom quarter of the puff pastry, with the remainder being simply empty, unfulfilling space. Nonetheless, I thought, perhaps it might actually be good pastry cream, and the crunchy shell reflected only some sort of oven malfunction.
I tasted the pastry cream on its own, and was assaulted by the unmistakable flavor of artificial vanilla. Indeed, the substance tasted like a particularly inadequate instant vanilla pudding.
And the chocolate? I have tasted better frosting on a Hostess cupcake.
Pfaugh!
Worse still, I had four more of these monstrosities to dispose of.
I contemplated giving them to a local shelter, but then decided it would be uncharitable to so abuse those unfortunate souls. Instead, I gave one to a nearby twelve-year-old child, who took a single bite, spit it out, and threw the remainder in the trash.
I attempted the same experiment with a six-year-old, with similar results, and decided to stop before I was accused of child abuse.
I was then faced with the issue of proper disposal of these obviously hazardous pseudo-confections. Knowing how picky Seattle can be about such matters, I decided to place the problem back in the hands of the so-called baker who created these abominations.
I crept into the alley behind Boulangerie, hiring a local urchin to act as a look out, and surreptitiously stuffed the remaining éclairs in the dumpster behind the shop.
I later dutifully reported that I suspected Boulangerie of illegally disposing of hazardous wastes, but I fear nothing came of it.
And so my search continues.
-Ram
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