This One’s for Gary.

In my opinion, this is the GOAT almond croissant.

In Pursuit of the Perfect Almond Croissant for Gary at Chez Christine et Christophe in the village of Cucuron.

Preface: Gary is an old friend and former colleague of mine. In fact, we have now known each other for over 25 years. Last year, I hosted Gary here in France for his first time.

I can now only apologize to you, the reader, up front for creating what “we” refer to as a croissant monster. Actually, to be fair, Gary has become an apprentice almond croissant aficionado.

A keen cyclist, Gary has found a way to test dozens of different varieties since his return to Canada. More to his credit, he has mastered a healthy way of shedding the ill effects of consuming these numbers by only doing so when stopping for well-earned breaks on his long bicycle adventures.

I would like to tell you that my trip this morning to Cucuron, a small Provençal village with more vowels than people, was motivated by noble ambitions—photographing medieval ramparts, pondering Roman aqueducts, perhaps even attempting something frightfully energetic like walking. But no. I came to Cucuron today for a single reason, and it was not historical, cultural, or particularly spiritual.

It was, quite simply, to eat an almond croissant and report back to Gary. Not just any almond croissant, you understand, but the almond croissant. The one that I now believe is the best in Provence, possibly in France, and, since I am not inclined to modesty where pastry is concerned, quite possibly the best in the known universe. This is the sort of revelation that, once made, rather takes over your life.

The Quest

To reach Cucuron is to discover a village that feels like it has been art-directed by someone with a deep affection for patina and peeling shutters. The place is famous for its central étang, a vast rectangular pond shaded by towering plane trees, which doubles as the set piece in any number of French films. (If you’ve seen a wistful romantic comedy in which two people gaze pensively at each other across rippling water while wearing linen, chances are it was filmed here.) But I confess that I walked past all this cinematic charm with barely a glance, because I was intent on a far greater calling: the local boulangerie. Within its modest façade resides the reason I was there, and within the boulangerie resides the young woman who, for reasons entirely beyond her comprehension, is now the gatekeeper to my personal nirvana. This nirvana for those who crave the GOAT is Chez Christine et Christophe. “Deux croissants aux amandes, s’il vous plaît,” I said, trying to appear casual, as though this was just a whim. It was not. This was destiny.

Le’tang, a great place to reflect on our quest for the GOAT! Get it? Reflect…. I’ll be here all week.

The Croissant, Dissected

Now, let us pause to acknowledge a truth that all croissant connoisseurs know: almond croissants are an act of resurrection. They begin life as ordinary croissants—yesterday’s croissants, to be precise. Day-old, slightly weary, the croissant equivalent of a man in his late forties wearing Lycra on a bicycle. And then, as if by miracle, they are reborn. The baker slices them open, fills them with a velvety almond cream, rebakes them until the scent wafts out into the street like a siren call, and crowns them with a dusting of powdered sugar and a liberal sprinkling of slivered almonds. What emerges is a work of genius: flaky yet yielding, buttery yet light, sweet but not cloying. A croissant that, quite frankly, makes you forgive the French Revolution and everything that followed. And so it was that my wife and I sat at a little table in the morning sun, our coffee cups steaming gently beside us, and gave ourselves over to an hour of serious research.

Coffee, Companionship, and Crumbs

For my wife, a café crème—rich, foamy, and entirely indifferent to her protestations about being “cutting back.” For me, a café allongé—essentially French coffee diluted to a Canadian standard, which sounds disappointing but is in fact excellent for drawing out the croissant experience, sip by cautious sip. We ate slowly. Or rather, we tried to. The almond croissant is not something you eat so much as you dismantle. It flakes with reckless abandon, scattering its golden shards across the table, your lap, the cobblestones, and, if you are particularly gifted, into the passing breeze. All the while, the Provençal morning unfolded around us. The plane trees threw down dappled light, dappling with such enthusiasm that it looked like an overzealous filter in Lightroom. Elderly men shuffled across the square with baguettes under their arms. A dog of indeterminate breed regarded us with quiet envy. Somewhere, a church bell struck ten, which in village terms is practically lunchtime. It was, in short, perfection.

The Leica Comes Out

Being who I am, I had my camera at hand. Two, in fact. One can never be too prepared for pastry photography. I captured the almond croissant with the Q3 mainly in macro mode from every conceivable angle: the oblique angle (suggesting mystery), the overhead shot (classic, reliable), the half-bitten profile (carnal but honest). The light played along, bouncing off powdered sugar like snow on Mont Ventoux (see the recent post regarding our morning on top of Mont Ventoux). Our server, the same young lady who has enabled our recurring sins on more occasions than I care to count, noticed my enthusiasm. With the sort of nonchalance only the French can muster, she asked if I might consider posting some of these photographic masterpieces to Google Maps or Google Reviews and also asked if I could tell Gary she said hello. I assured her I would. I also assured her that I would be writing about this visit in more depth, though I suspect she had no idea what she was signing herself up for.

On Health, or Lack Thereof

It would be dishonest not to admit that eating almond croissants for breakfast is not exactly the cornerstone of a healthy lifestyle. There is very little that can be said in its defence nutritionally. One could point to the almonds—protein, healthy fats, and so forth—but the argument collapses under the sheer weight of butter, sugar, and my inability to stop after the first bite. Still, as I sat there, licking powdered sugar from my fingers in what I hoped was a discreet fashion, it seemed to me that health is not always measured in grams or calories. Sometimes it is measured in joy, and joy is exactly what was delivered to me today in Cucuron. And to be honest, probably as a once-a-week treat going forward.

Why This Matters

There are places you visit because guidebooks tell you to, and there are places you visit because your stomach insists. Cucuron, for me, is firmly in the latter category. Yes, the village is lovely, with its stone houses, its plane trees, its languid pond, and its enviable filmography. But for me, Cucuron will forever be the place where almond croissants achieved transcendence. I cannot promise that eating one will change your life. But I can promise that for half an hour, in the cool Provençal morning, with sunlight dappling across the square and a camera in hand, it will feel very much like it has.

Final Thought

When I look back at my photographs from today, I suspect I will not see merely coffee and croissants. I will see a morning perfectly, absurdly French. A moment where indulgence became a sort of poetry, where dappled light turned crumbs into constellations, and where Cucuron reminded me, once again, that sometimes the best journeys are those measured not in miles, but in pastries. And yes, I will post a picture to Google Reviews. But really, you should just come here yourself.

I do trust you enjoy this simple story about great things done simply.

Live well!

Mark

If you can pile the GOAT on top of two chocolate almond croissants, you can consider yourself in a good place.

Double baked day old regular buttery croissants transformed to the GOAT almond version.

Hamish knows almond croissants and will stand as stoically as Marcus Aurelius until some falls into his gob.

Enjoy a cafe creame with one perhaps.

Don’t let the slight dusting of powdered sugar get in your way.

Waste not, want not.

Let Hamish look after clean-up.

I took my leave from the boulangerie and came straight here to pray for forgiveness from God and my internal medicine specialist.