I don’t know if it was perfect by standards of critics or chefs, but it was perfectly what I was looking for; Not too buttery, but just enough to notice it’s gathering of flours. Not too sweet, but noticeable hints of vanilla and enough chocolate to compliment a stark sweetness of dough. Hazelnuts typically distract me but these were generously placed in order to cast a satisfying crunch on the top of my mouth every few bites. I told the shop owner it was “très bonne” which I know is the simplest compliment of all time, but all I really knew how to say.
I have been looking for the perfect chocolate chip cookie in France the past 2 months as I’ve been traveling through Marseille, Aix en Provence, Bordeaux and other places with smaller populations. Even meandering towards Romania and Spain, the new flavors I’ve discovered have failed in comparison to the ache I never thought I’d want to fill with something familiar from my grandmother’s kitchen. It’s been hard to find time to create new patterns here and I guess subconsciously I thought finding the perfect American classic food would give me some sort of comfort. It didn’t. And it hasn’t.
We’re all a constellation of the flavors and people and places we’ve been. It shouldn’t be the goal to find the best, but maybe cultivate the best instead.
I have loved learning about food (the one thing that used to scare me to death) and it has helped me realize that you can try to find comfort in things that remind you of home. Or you can avoid them completely.
But maybe, it might be a better idea to create a home within yourself instead.
✈️
