MAGAN'S WORLD:I STILL HAVE to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming when I think of Petit Delice, the glorious French patisserie on the main street in Cahirciveen that I discovered barely a week ago. I find myself plotting ways to return there, just to taste one more Amande Jésuite or, their divine combination of brioche, pastry crème and chocolate they call the Suisse.
The pursuit of genuine French patisserie in Irish country towns has become somewhat of an obsession for me since stumbling accidentally upon Franck Pasquier’s French Market in Sligo town a year ago. This Breton baker, who guards the secret of his sourdough starter with Fatima-like devotion and is the only producer of Keltica bread in the country, has since gone on to develop a divine pain de campagne by tracking down a supplier of one of the finest flours in France.
My obsession became chronic last month when I discovered La Baguette Pausienne, an authentic French patisserie hidden inside the body of what used to be a humble cake shop in Ennis. Only when you enter this unassuming place do you realise that Jean Pierre Vereecque is gradually metamorphosing it from one baking culture to another, so that beside the pain au chocolat will be traditional sausage rolls, but encased in croissant-like pastry.
Few things feel quite as decadent as wandering around the narrow streets of an Irish market town licking at the multi-trillion folds and curves of a perfectly-created mille feuille baked by a master patisserie chef who has stayed up most of the night to create this marvel. With the buttery sensations cavorting on one’s palate and a few recalcitrant flecks of icing sugar catching themselves on tiny nicks and grooves of one’s cheeks, the world narrows to the tip of one’s tongue which is focused on rescuing the odd translucent flake of butter-brown heaven that threatens to flutter to the ground.
Each flake of good pastry or croissant ought to be regarded as sacred – the boulanger has been up since 3am stretching the dough and smothering it with slabs of butter, then rolling and folding it countless times until it’s ready for baking. All this has been done largely out of love, because no amount of money could compensate.
I’m not sure yet how widespread French boulangerie and patisserie are in Ireland. They tend to keep a low profile. You’ll find no mention on the internet of any of the places I’ve listed above. This is perhaps a sign of their otherworldliness. They are like the fairies of old – you need to set out with a pure heart and open mind to have any chance of discovering one.
Next time you find yourself in a grey provincial town, see can you find one. You’ll have to negotiate the local one-way system first (many of which seem to reverse polarity with the fickleness of a compass on the north pole), then decipher the local parking system. Next, start traipsing the narrow-pathed streets keeping an eye out for possible traces – a red and white Illy sign or a hand-painted blackboard.
There’s little use asking people: they’re as likely to point you towards Maura’s Home-cooked Treats or Bridie’s Bun Shop. It’ll require determination, maybe even radiating out in concentric circles from a central point. But it’s definitely worth it. With a naughty little beignet in your mouth and a crispy baguette under your arm the most charmless town begins to shine. Once the pain au chocolat is tight between your fingers and the smear of chocolate covers your lips everything is rosy. The garish plastic canopy of the local shopping arcade and the revving rosary beads of Hiaces, and haulage trucks winding through the medieval streets will appear noble and resplendent.