A Lonely Nanny in Paris and the Company of Crème Caramel

When I lived in Paris as a nanny many years ago, I would walk past this one restaurant every day along Rue du Mail as I picked the kids up from school. I was a lonely nanny in Paris, young and living off a wage—or rather pocket money—that enabled me to hunt for treasure at flea markets and thrift for clothing that matched my black bob and short fringe of the time—a resemblance of Audrey Tautou, or so I hoped. I would do this in between visiting free galleries and museums that I would plan out the night before, spending whatever money I had left on a very sugar-loving and carb-heavy diet of pain au chocolat and Parisian flan. I simply could not afford to dine out.

But this one restaurant I encountered every day enchanted me. Some days I would slow my pace down to watch the ladies who lunch and the businessmen in suits, peering into the dining room that more so resembles a theatre; everyone on stage, hungry for drama and enabling them to indulge in a fantasy that is far from the mundane of everyday life. But my eyes were always drawn forlornly to the food—to the plates of quail on a bed of jus with rose petals and little pots of crème brûlée—as I made my way to yet another jambon-buerre.

Despite my lack of income and the terrible trouble the kids were at times, I adored being a nanny in Paris. Sundays I always looked forward to as Olivier—the father of the kids I looked after—loved the rituals that food brought. This involved the early morning shop at the market, the preparation of Normandy’s Tarte au Pommes where his family is from, hoovering the breakfast crumbs from the tablecloth—exciting little Gilberto the Chihuahua—and choosing a wine from his cramped and damp cellar under the house that matched my birth year. In preparation for lunch, Olivier taught me the wonders of mirepoix and the art of deglazing as well as introducing me to a world of cheese as we would end each Sunday lunch with a smelly but always delicious selection.

To reward me for cooking butter and pasta for the kids every evening—they refused to eat anything but—and walking the kids to and from school whilst conversing with them in English—even though they never cooperated and always shouted ‘je m’en fous! Je deteste l’anglais!’—I was finally invited one evening to dine with my host family. I wore my most chic Catherine Deneuve-esque thrift find, the black pinafore that I still wear to this day, and wandered through the doors that I had always longingly peered into. I felt like I was trespassing on the playground for the rich. Sure, I’d dined in restaurants before, but never in places like this. This was the first meal I truly noticed; the first meal I ate with all my senses.

The dining room was warm, the lighting dim and the smells emanating from the kitchen felt new but nurturing. As we sat down, the waiter zoomed over with a tray of Champagne without spillage and an elegance I admired. ‘Every great meal begins with Champagne’ Olivier remarked, grinning from ear to ear. Seeing as though I was far too nervous to order for myself—in case I mispronounced something, or worse, had no idea what it was—Olivier ordered for me, somehow brilliantly knowing what I’d like, although I don’t believe there would be anything on the menu I wouldn’t enjoy. Suddenly, another waiter waltzed around the table serving up soup that steamed invitingly. I lifted my spoon to my lips and with my first sip, I felt deep within that it was the most amazing soup I’d ever tasted. It was simply watercress soup. I took another spoonful and another. I was robbed of conversation as I sat silently at the table concentrating only on what was in my mouth. Looking up, embarrassed to find that I hadn’t spoken a word since we sat down, I remember Olivier peering at me from the corner of his eye, smiling. The entire meal was an ensemble of delightful sensations; my first snails doused in garlic and butter, clouds of lobster quenelles that melted on my tongue and a simple cut of steak seared perfectly. ‘This sauce!’ I cried out involuntarily, disrupting the quiet chatter of the dining room and suddenly covered my mouth remembering where I was. Olivier laughed: ‘Incroyable, non?’

And then came the crème caramel. Unassuming in appearance but as the waiter placed it in front of me, he winked, very much aware of the fun I was having and said: ‘Vous allez adorer ça.’ As I looked down upon the jiggling dessert mimicking my giddiness and into its bath of dark caramel sauce, I could see my reflection in the glossy sheen, hungrily beaming up at me. I closed my eyes and with my first spoonful—or rather satisfying slurp—I listened to my mouth. Like velvet, it sat on my tongue until the cream and caramel melted to become one. It was a dizzying feeling to eat with all senses. I smiled at the waiter who could visibly see my eyes wide with wonder from across the room. Certainly giddy from Champagne and feeling truly like a French film star under the warm incandescent glow of the lamps, I was, right to the very last bite, overwhelmed with joy.

Like what most people find journeying around Paris, whether it be clichès, Paris syndrome or a romance like Emily’s, I discovered and became obsessed with the sheer power of food and hospitality. ‘Pick your poison’ they say and thus I’ve chosen mine. Whatever money I can scramble together, I choose to spend it on dining out. Rather than, as Anthony Bourdain put it, ‘filling up at a gas station’ I began to look at food differently. It was a taste of a world like no other.

Since this evening in Paris which I am forever grateful for, I’ve worked in and dined at restaurants where customers are made to feel small. And to be honest, I’d rather dine in a sticky, run-down bar that burped beer out onto the street when the door swung open or a fish and chips shop in the city with walls stained with the smell of old grease. Nobody likes to pay to be humiliated. I will never understand the snobbish air of a waiter or the condescending nature of a sommelier; they hold the ability to completely transform someone’s life. When I think of customers feeling intimidated, out of depth or saving up for an evening to enjoy the rare occasion of a meal out together, I remember my younger self—curious, desperate to dine out and far too anxious to order. And then I remember that evening in Paris where I was introduced to a myriad of wonderful food, the power of genuine hospitality and that glorious moment with a crème caramel.

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A Recipe for Crème Caramel

Serves 6

For the crème:

250 ml whole milk

250 ml double cream

1 vanilla pod, split lengthways

100 g caster sugar

2 whole eggs

4 egg yolks

For the caramel:

185 g caster sugar

75 ml room temperature water

Grease six ramekins with butter and set aside.

For the caramel, gently warm a saucepan over a low-medium heat. Once warm, gradually add sugar, spoon by spoon, until all the sugar has melted. Stir gently until the caramel is golden brown or until the caramel has reached 160C. Add the water and stand back as it bubbles up. Allow the caramel to simmer, without stirring for a minute or two or until the caramel has reached 110C. Divide between the moulds, working quickly before it sets, and swirling to cover the bases. Set aside.

Meanwhile, for the custard, put the milk, cream, vanilla and half the sugar in a saucepan over low-medium heat to gently warm the milk. Whisk the eggs, egg yolks and the remaining sugar together in a separate heatproof bowl. Gradually add the warm milk to the eggs, whisking gently all the time. Strain the custard and set aside to cool.

Preheat the oven to 150C. Pour the custard over the caramel in the ramekins and cover each one tightly with foil. Place in a large baking tray with tall sides, lined with a tea towel. Pour hot water into the tray to two-thirds of the way up the ramekins. I tend to do this once the tray has been placed into the oven. Bake for 30-35 minutes until firm but with a slight wobble in the centre. Remove the ramekins from the hot water and place them on a wire rack to cool. Chill in the fridge overnight.

When you are ready to serve, dip the ramekins quickly into a bath of hot water and flip over onto plates. Give the ramekin and plate a slight shake side-to-side if the crème caramel doesn't come out immediately.

With its quivery custard and dark, sweet caramel, crème caramel is quite possibly my favourite dessert of all time.