A lovely lunch

Enough misery. Let's have some fun.  Let's go get some lunch.

I set out for my usual noontime walk the other day, starting in the skyways, because of the cold. But they get so crowded and people walk so slowly and clog the escalators, and grrrr I need to move, so I wrapped my scarf around my neck and pulled on my gloves and went out into the cold and ahhhh--fresh air. Space.

I walk-walk-walked up to the Nicollet Mall, past the shivering Salvation Army bell ringers, headed toward Peavey Plaza, a nice fast mile-long walk or so.

I am a creature of habit, and it has been my habit to walk briskly over the noon hour, pick up a modest bowl of soup, and then try to hoof it back to my desk before the soup (and I) freeze.

But as I was swinging down Nicollet Mall I passed a little storefront, a tiny place, just one doorway wide.  A creperie. I caught a glimpse of a white jacket, a gold chandelier, and then I was past.

And then I stopped.

And turned around. 

Went back.

Opened the door.

I was in a closet-sized place, a narrow room not much bigger than an elevator, with griddles, a counter, and high ceilings. There were two people behind the counter, frying and folding crepes.  Two people sitting at the counter, eating crepes. One person standing off to the side, waiting for a crepe.  And me.  The six of us in such a small space made a crowd.

The place had an elegant French air to it, with the brass chandelier and paintings hung high on the wall, pinks and blues, but I can't tell you what they depicted because I don't remember. I was distracted by the smells...warm buckwheat crepes, paper-thin, and a spicy, cidery smell, and a whiff of almond.

Soup? Yeah, I'll have soup tomorrow. Today, I realized, I need a crepe.

The smiling bearded man behind the counter agreed to make me a ham and gruyere crepe, and while it cooked, we chatted. What had brought him to Minnesota? A woman. (It's always a woman.) How long had he been here? Nineteen winters. He spoke very quickly, with a strong French accent, and it was almost as hard to understand him as it would have been had he been speaking actual French.

The close quarters made everyone cheerful and talkative. One of the other diners came over to ogle my crepe. "I want to see what it looks like," he explained. "Because I ordered the other one."

(All folded up and drizzled with a thick zigzag of Crème fraîche, they looked pretty much the same.)

The owner urged us all to try a cup of his hot cider--piquant and tart. "I squeezed 50 lemons and 50 oranges into it," he said. (At least, I think that's what he said.) It was so good; warm and tangy.

I had planned to take my crepe and walk fast back to work, getting there before the crepe cooled off. But the owner urged me to stay and eat it there. "If you wait ten minutes, I'll give you free samples," he said. He was making mini-crepes like mad, catering a Christmas party on a different floor.

So we all waited, and chatted, and ate our crepes, and then, voila! A saucer of three tiny crepes appeared at my elbow. One pumpkin, one pear and amaretto, and one chocolate, each just three bites apiece, each with a bold squiggle of Crème fraîche.

By now I was so full of ham and gruyrere I could hardly stand up. I thanked him, said goodbye to the other cheerful diners, and carefully carried my uncovered plate of mini crepes down the sidewalk, headed back to work. Along the way, full as I was, I started nibbling on the pumpkin crepe. Then I turned my attention to the almond and amaretto crepe.

But I left the chocolate one untouched. That, I had decided, was for a co-worker, one who has been my sounding board during all of this past week's angst. (And I hers.)

I waddled up the stairs to the newsroom and presented it to her with a flourish, just like the French crepe maker, but without the accent, and she ate it on the spot.

We're going back next week. Because walking is good and soup is sensible but everyone needs a little Crème fraîche in their life now and then.