Jay Silverston is a fixture behind the register at Paris Creperie, taking orders and doling out deadpan quips in equal measure. Not catching a customer's name, he asks her to repeat it.
"Kyle or Clark?" Jay asks. It's Kyle. "Are you sure?" he inquires, straightfaced.
Behind this comedic welcome is the assembly line, where a few crepe makers work perhaps half a dozen broad circular griddles. A ladleful of dun-colored batter slurps onto the first griddle, cooking and setting as it's teased into a perfect circle. Then it's peeled from the griddle and slapped onto another, a blank canvas to receive its fillings—perhaps a cloak of gently-melting cheese, or thin pink layers of ham. The final step is folding layer upon layer of thin, light crepe upon itself, a tri-cornered pocket of dough and filling that demands to be eaten hot the moment it hits the plate.
I love crepes and I do have to agree with you - it's an art. I haven't made it in a while but this post makes me want to have some for breakfast soon!ReplyDelete