Why I Love Crepes As Much As the French Do
I fell in love with crepes before I even set foot in France. My favorite crepe recipe I used came from a cookbook I bought for my daughters just before we moved from the U.S. to Austria in 2002. Then in their pre-teens, my daughters were keen on cooking, so I was browsing the cookbook section of one of the bookstores that once dotted the American suburban landscape, and this book’s simple recipes caught my eye.
A crepe is quite simple to make. It only takes a hot pan to create this ultra-thin, fluffy delicacy with flour, eggs, milk, butter, and sugar. The batter, thinner than that of the American pancake, is whisked by hand (or a blender) to free it of any lumps. The magic begins when the batter touches the pan. The room lights up with a mouth-watering sweet aroma.
Crepes don’t call for baking powder, which gives them a slightly chewy texture, and makes attaining a perfect crepe easy—another reason I love them. You see, I grew up in the Caribbean, in Guyana, where bakes are the go-to breakfast “bread”. My favorites were soft bakes and yeast bakes. These soft, golden-fried breads weren’t too complicated to make; however, they needed the right amount of baking powder or yeast for success. The simplicity of making crepes without any raising agents almost made it foolproof.
When my daughters and I started making crepes, they began as my sous chefs. First, their tasks centered around measuring and preparing the thin batter. They would then hand it off to me and watch with some anticipation as I poured a thin layer of the batter into a hot frying pan, twirling it around to create a perfect circle. Close to perfect was good, too.
My daughters soon mastered the flour-to-milk ratio and learned how to twirl the hot pan from side to side as the batter made its way through golden melted butter, taking on the shape of a crepe.
On Saturday mornings after we’d moved to Vienna, we would gather in the cozy C-shaped kitchen many American cooks might find too small. It made up for what it didn’t have in size with natural light. The large picture windows framed the entire upper level, welcoming in the daylight and offering generous views of Klosterneuberg Monastery and the treetops. It felt like we lived in a treehouse.
Bakes are as ubiquitous in Guyana as crepes are in France and pancakes are in America. Bakes are usually best served with savory compliments like salted fish cooked with garlic and onions. Pancakes tend to lean sweet, but crepes work well with sweet or savory toppings; they are the most versatile. You can eat crepes for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or dessert too.
We had three go-to fillings for the crepes: Nutella; sautéed mushrooms in sour cream, or with fresh lemon juice and sugar sprinkled over the top. The mushrooms had to be carefully cleaned, sliced, and sauteed in sizzling hot olive oil, being careful not to crowd the pan, or they would not achieve that perfect brown crisp. This filling required the most work, so we didn’t make it too often.
Crepes and the French go back as far back as the Middle Ages. Legend has it that a housewife in Brittany, while making thin porridge, accidentally spilled some on a hot flat stove and, in doing so, stumbled upon the delightful flavor of a light, crispy pancake or crepes. The French enjoy crepes either sweet (crêpes sucrées) or savory (crêpes salées).
When my family and I visited Paris, the City of Love, for the first time in [year], crepes were at the top of my “Foods I Must Eat” list. We I visited the Eiffel Tower and then, still giddy from soaking in the sweeping views of the city from 460 feet above the ground, set out to sample crepes – the French way. As we strolled along one of the wide boulevards, the hypnotic sweet aroma of crepes hit us. We followed the trail and landed across the street at a creperie – a crepe stand.
Crepe stands are a standard part of Parisian street life. Most people subconsciously commit to buying once they get the first hit of that delightful aroma piercing the atmosphere. The inviting and comforting smell of the crepes is the only advertising a creperie stand will ever need.
Watching the crêpiers create this street delicacy is a treat. We stood there, my daughters peering from both sides of the stand, watching the crêpier pour the thin crepe batter onto a super-hot, lightly oiled round griddle with a spoon resembling a soup ladle. Then, like an artist, he held the crepe spreader (rosell/rateau) with an ever so slight grip and painted the batter onto the buttery griddle with a perfectly timed circular motion until it reached the outer boundaries. He waited momentarily, steam enveloping the crepe, then flipped it in one well-choreographed motion. The Nutella waited patiently in the wing, but it didn’t have to wait long. Within seconds, he added spatulated chocolaty goodness onto the perfectly browned crepe, folding it into a triangle and sliding it into a thin, waxed paper sleeve.
“Merci, au revoir,” I mumbled in a butchered French accent, and then we took our first bite in the City of Love. The girls’ eyes lit up; they were in crepe heaven. The crepe was warm and soft, with a thin layer of Nutella. It melted in my mouth, filling me with sweet happiness. I had tried crepes before, but nothing compared to the ones in Paris. They were cooked to perfection, and served with a certain je ne sais quoi.
